Desperado
by In the House
Summary: House is in therapy. Blythe is in Princeton. Everything is in turmoil. This is Huddy with Wilson friendships. Mentions physical abuse. This is the sequel to When Pranks Go Wrong.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Desperado. See the lyrics of the Eagles' great song, which I think are perfect for House.

Rating: T. Again, I will never cross the line into extreme, blow-by-blow recountings of sex. Were it a movie, we wouldn't pass PG-13 tops. This story does mention physical abuse.

Disclaimer: The characters are not mine, etc. Wish they were. If they were, several things in S5 would have been different.

Speaking of which, in my world, Kutner will not die. He was my favorite of the fellows, and his method of ending was so far against his character and his fairly recent remarks (i.e. Painless) that I thought it was implausible. I have known a few people who committed suicide. Not one of them at least in retrospect if not at the time had absolutely zero indication of personal problems or being under stress. I don't rule out killing some other character by some method, as a few of them have tempted me occasionally. :)

By the way, I was watching a rerun of Daddy's Boy this week, which reminded me all over again when I first knew that there WAS an abuse storyline, if they ever wished to develop it. In particular, House's statement - totally seriously - to Cuddy that he hated his father, his expression at the dinner right after his father tells him he doesn't know how lucky he is (that is indeed hate based on long and extreme history, not just on that one statement - great job, HL, as always, saying so much without words), and his attempted explanation to Cameron and his clear incompleteness and inadequacy of that explanation compared to the previous events of the episode. He knew he had to tell her something to have any chance of getting her to leave the topic alone in the future, but even later in adulthood, abuse victims do not simply talk about it openly, not without a lot of processing and help which House obviously has never had. That whole episode SCREAMED abuse to me, and this was way before One Day, One Room came out. I wasn't sure they would choose to go that way in the future, and in fact hoped that it wouldn't be something to come up in every ep, but I had no doubt that they had laid plenty of groundwork there to mention abuse later if they wished to. Great stuff. I love watching the early seasons; they just had more zing. HL is awesome in any season, but the overall dynamic of the show had more zing in past years.

This story is a sequel to When Pranks Go Wrong, and you really need to read that one first to understand the back story. It will probably be updated more slowly than Pranks, as I have more going on, but it will be updated regularly.

(H/C)

Music from a piano wrapped around the chilly February evening, alternately mirroring and warming it in turn, filled with the emotions of not just winter but of every season of the soul. The hopes of spring, the growth and warmth of summer, the melancholy beauty of fall, and the storms but also fireplaces of winter - all were in the progressing medley that fell effortlessly from long, graceful fingertips caressing the keys. A listener might not have known until seeing that the fairly complex progressions were played with only one hand. Many at PPTH would not have believed, even after seeing, that the source of the exquisite melodies was the sarcastic ass they knew as Dr. House.

His left arm was folded across his lap, supporting the cast that held it temporarily prisoner, and his eyes had closed as he played. He was seeing - and reliving musically - the tremendous emotional range of the past two weeks.

They knew. The thought still terrified him on some deep level. His most deeply guarded secret was now shared by his two best friends. He had never meant to let them into that closet, had wished desperately that they would go back out and leave him alone again, had watched in dread for any sort of pity on their parts and in wonder when he saw none. Wilson was still agitated and uncertain at times on how to deal with this, but there was no pity, and to his amazement, it hadn't become the elephant in the room. He and his friend could still spend an evening watching monster trucks on TV or joking about Wilson's love life. And Cuddy . . . Cuddy had been nothing short of amazing the last few weeks. She more than Wilson could willingly take whatever he felt like telling her, listening with unfailing compassion but at least not visible shock to startle him into shutting down. She also could leave the topic totally alone, not even trying to approach it sideways. She truly was letting him know that whatever he chose to tell her any given night - be it something or nothing - was perfectly fine with her. She was giving him back the control that he felt had been ripped involuntarily from him by the disclosure, and he loved her even more for it.

A fault line rippled through the smooth melody, and then it recovered and went on. He _loved_ her. The thought replayed in his head like a stuck record of a favorite song. Did he? Could he? Could she? And was there indeed any hope of it changing anything? He still wasn't sure, not of his own feelings but of hers. He also dreaded dragging her down with him. But what if she could bring him up instead? He had seen much more of her the last two weeks than usual, but tomorrow night, they would officially go out on a date together. He was ecstatic. He was terrified.

To his relief, the work dynamics had not changed at all. He still harassed Cuddy, and she still parried with the skill of a sword master. He still stole lunch from Wilson. The rest of the hospital staff still rolled their eyes when they saw him. The only challenging part at work had been explaining why he suddenly was not doing clinic duty. He and Cuddy had discussed it the evening after his first day back. Telling the truth was impossible, both to protect her professional reputation and authority with the rest of the staff and to protect his privacy in the future, when he had gone through the two months she owed him for hurting him and started working down the hours he was getting in exchange for going into therapy. On the other hand, saying nothing was also impossible, as the grapevine was a very healthy one at PPTH. Silence and extended freedom from the clinic would invite people to guess that Cuddy had been responsible for the trip wire. No, they needed a plausible and totally untrue excuse. The answer was research. House was doing research on a specific exotic condition, with a donor promising large contributions contingent on his help with this disease, and due to the time that took and the status of the big-name donor, she had let him off clinic duty indefinitely to focus on other things. The story was perfect, with enough detail to satisfy but not enough to be proven wrong, and with Wilson publicly backing it up, the PPTH staff had accepted it without question.

Therapy. House hesitated again just slightly on the thought, and then his right hand resumed the music. He wanted this to work, if it could, but he still wasn't sure it would make any difference. It would also be bringing yet another person into the circle of knowledge, albeit a total stranger, at least. But Cuddy had asked him to. He hated to disappoint her.

The date tomorrow night with Cuddy. The appointment with the psychiatrist in New York the day after. They loomed like twin mountains on the horizon. He hoped he didn't manage to screw up either one.

A perfunctory tap on his door sounded, and Wilson entered with his key immediately after. House didn't still have someone staying with him overnight each night, but Wilson and Cuddy still alternated coming for dinner, and he appreciated their company. It held the ghosts at bay until he went to bed each night, falling into the sound arms of zolpidem. He had never realized how much better he would feel by simply getting a sound, full night of sleep each night.

Wilson set down the grocery bags he was holding and eyed his friend. "Cuddy's Serenade?"

House hadn't realized he had automatically switched to playing it. He immediately switched. "Actually, I wrote a new one just now. It's called Wilson's Meddling." He shifted into a stumbling attempt at a melody whose main characteristics were its extreme effort and not quite getting there in spite of that.

Wilson grinned, acknowledging the barb good naturedly, and then headed for the kitchen. "What about stuffed peppers tonight?" he called.

"As long as I only have to eat one of them, I could survive it," House replied. He didn't want to admit how much Wilson's food, even the healthier of it, was growing on him.

"I'll get started then. Sorry I was late tonight."

"Patient?"

Wilson came back to the kitchen door and nodded. "Just a kid. We just got the diagnosis back today, and his parents were freaking out, of course. He took it amazingly well. Most of the kids do." He was lost in memory for a moment, back in the conference that had run late as he tried to give hope where honestly, there was not much, and even the limited road ahead would be filled with side-effects.

House stopped playing and got up. "Better get the peppers started if we want to eat tonight," he said. Wilson recognized the sympathy that House couldn't quite express outright and the attempt at distraction.

"Right." The oncologist retreated to the kitchen and started unpacking ingredients from the sack. He heard House limp down the hall to the bathroom and close the door. As Wilson was lining up his vegetables on the counter, his cell phone rang, and he pulled it out. "Hello?"

"Hello, James, this is Blythe!"

Wilson glanced worriedly toward the hall. "Hi, Blythe. I'm a little busy right now, I'm afraid. Did you need something?"

"No, I just wanted to make sure we were still on for lunch on Saturday. I'll be leaving tomorrow afternoon, probably stop in a motel part way, but I should easily be in Princeton by noon."

Wilson kept his voice down and his ears peeled. "Right, I'm looking forward to it. Nothing has changed on this end."

"Wonderful. I am looking forward to seeing you, James. I wish I could have seen Greg, but I understand about him being out of state." She chuckled. "I'll probably get a more accurate picture from you of how he's doing than from him anyway."

"I'm sure you will," Wilson said with feeling. He heard the toilet flush down the hall. "I've got to go. See you at noon Saturday, my place."

"I'll see you then. Thank you, James." She hung up, and Wilson was just returning the phone to his pocket when House came down the hall.

"Did I hear the phone ring?"

"It was my cell. Just a quick consult," Wilson said, pretty sure that House couldn't have heard anything more definite across a few rooms and through the closed bathroom door. House accepted it and settled down on the couch, turning on the TV. Wilson returned to stuffing peppers. Part of him felt guilty for setting up lunch with House's mother behind his back, but the other part rationalized it out. House certainly had enough going on emotionally at the moment; avoiding his mother was why he'd picked a Saturday psych appointment in New York in the first place. Wilson really had no intention of his friend finding out. He would meet Blythe privately for lunch - at his place, not a restaurant - would open her eyes to how incredibly oblivious she had been during her son's childhood, and she would go off, like House, to think through things and start to process them. He'd even suggest that she get a therapist herself - anyone that blind clearly needed help - and maybe down the road sometime, she and House would have a much-needed conversation when they'd both had time to prepare for it. She would understand things so much better once she knew, as Wilson himself did now. She needed to know. It would be good for her to start her own process of getting in touch with reality.

Wilson put the peppers in the oven and went out into the living room with two beers, which he opened first in the kitchen since House with his broken wrist was having trouble with that these days. House was still channel flipping, but he stopped at CSI. "Let's see how many errors I can find this week."

"Sounds fun. I don't know why they don't hire you as a consultant on all TV shows. Just think of all the expert advice they're ignoring." House chuckled appreciatively and grabbed one of the beers from Wilson. The oncologist found himself studying his friend out of the corner of his eye as he ostensibly watched TV. House was looking _good_. His color was better, his movements, if not easy, about as good as they got. Wilson had done an MRI on his full leg, which did turn up enough inflammation and chronic changes in hip, knee, and foot to make Wilson and Cuddy feel guilty at questioning his increased pain level. He was continuing on high-dose NSAIDs on a strict schedule at every meal, along with the usual Vicodin, and it was making a difference, Wilson thought. Furthermore, the more regular eating habits that this mandated, plus the fact that he actually was sleeping well these days, were having a positive effect on his general health. And Cuddy . . . Cuddy was beyond good for him. Wilson just hoped that his two friends could safely navigate all the obstacles of a relationship successfully. But yes, even with a broken wrist and the still recent scar down the side of his face, House was looking good at the moment.

No, there was absolutely no reason why House needed to know that Wilson would be having lunch with Blythe on Saturday.


	2. Chapter 2

House stood in front of the mirror, frowning, then pulled off the tie and started over on tying it. No matter how he did it, the ends never came out right, the knot never neat. At least he had pretty well settled on the shirt he was wearing - after four alternatives and a couple of trials of each. He knew Cuddy liked his sky blue shirt because she'd suggested it before, but was it jinxed now by the horrible date with Cameron? And even if it wasn't jinxed, would Cuddy remember it and think of Cameron? Better to wear a shirt she'd never mentioned liking but that had no memories of other women attached to it? He'd finally decided to go with the blue shirt after all, but he still wasn't convinced it was right. Trouble was, nothing else looked right, either.

The tie was crooked again. Damn. He whipped it off and threw it clear across the room, then sighed as he hobbled over without his cane to retrieve it.

He was turning into a woman. That was the only explanation. Even his pre-date nerves with Cameron hadn't been anywhere near this bad, and Stacy had been as unconventional as House himself. He and Stacy had just done things. They hadn't gone out to eat much, had rarely seriously talked, had stepped straight into daily life without all the ritual pre-dance. He couldn't once in five years remember being concerned about what he wore for Stacy, and if she had preferred any of his shirts, she'd never once in five years said so.

Cuddy was different. Cuddy cared what she looked like, knew how to dress for effect, knew what made a successful date. With Cuddy, it _mattered._

He returned to the mirror, fidgeting with the tie again. It was getting crumpled due to all the repeated attempts. Should go great against his shirt that he had actually ironed, making him look like a half-hearted jerk instead of his usual total jerk, like he couldn't be bothered to dress up completely for her and had lost interest halfway.

Though he'd never admit it, sometimes he truly envied Wilson.

(H/C)

Cuddy stood in front of the mirror, frowning, checking her hair for the eighteenth time. She had wracked her brain trying to remember if there was an outfit about which House seemed to have expressed sincere and particular admiration. Trouble was, he commented on anything she wore, though never totally seriously. She was left trying to deduce what he actually liked. After five or six outfits, she had settled on a blue silk dress that she had bought a few years ago, though she'd never admit it, because the color reminded her of his eyes. Sort of reminded her of his eyes. There was nothing else exactly that color, just as prints are only pale, washed-out imitations when held up against an original masterpiece.

She turned away from the mirror with a sigh and exited the bathroom. "Wilson!"

He was in her living room floor playing with Rachel, and he looked up. "Wow! That's almost the same color as his eyes."

"_Nothing's_ the same color as his eyes. Does my hair look all right?" She reached up compulsively for it and stopped her hand halfway, afraid that if it were okay, she would mess it up checking.

"It's great. You look beautiful." His sincere masculine admiration reassured her somewhat. This wasn't a date with just any man, though. This was a date with _House._ "Relax, Cuddy." She shot him a look. "Okay, so don't relax, but don't be so keyed up you don't enjoy yourself." Rachel gurgled, and he tickled her stomach and was rewarded with a baby grin which he returned, looking utterly goofy for a second. Cuddy smiled in spite of her nerves. "I want you to know, Cuddy, everything tonight is his choice. I've made a lot of different suggestions, but he wanted to pick on his own. I don't know what he's actually decided on doing, but whatever it is, he really means it. It's him, not my script."

She smiled at him. "Thank you, Wilson. Jewelry," she said suddenly. "I think I might have a necklace that goes better with this dress than this one." She whirled and hurried back down the hall.

Wilson's cell phone rang, and he pulled it out. "Hello!"

"How the hell do you tie a tie and make it look right?"

"You know how to tie a tie, House. You wore a tie to court, remember?"

"Thanks for bringing up the pleasant memories there. It won't look right tonight, no matter what I do. This stupid cast won't let my fingers work right, and it comes out crooked."

Wilson sighed. "Do you want me to meet you outside before you come in?"

"No, she'd notice. She'd think I can't even get dressed correctly. I'm sure I can demonstrate my incompetence tonight, but let's try to get past the first 15 seconds at least before then."

Wilson sighed again and wished for 30 minutes from now, when their date for better or for worse would be started, and he would be excused from having to cheerlead for both sides. "She's as nervous as you are, believe it or not. It will be fine, House. Go without a tie if you have to. She'll understand."

House's voice was soft. "She deserves better."

"She deserves you, and you deserve her. This WILL work, and once you get started, it will be fine. Just relax." House apparently didn't appreciate that advice and slammed his phone down with a curse, disconnecting, just as Cuddy came out of her bedroom door wearing not one, not two, but _three _necklaces.

"Wilson? Which one do you think . . ."

Wilson sighed again. D minus 25 minutes and counting.

(H/C)

House stood in front of her door taking deep breaths, then knocked softly, actually knocking, not pounding with his cane. She opened the door so quickly that she had to have been standing on the other side with her hand on the knob. They faced each other in stunned silence for a minute.

"Wow." House's eyes ran over her outfit. "You look . . . unbelievable."

"So do you." She had always loved that blue shirt and was touched that he remembered her choice, that her comment about it outweighed the memories of Cameron. It had actually been ironed, his jacket and slacks accentuated his lean frame perfectly, and if the tie was slightly crooked, it seemed the perfect Housian touch for her. He didn't look like a generic date. He looked like House who was genuinely trying. She couldn't wait to spend the evening exploring that distinction further.

He saw her eyes resting on the tie. "I couldn't . . . the cast. . .it just wouldn't . . . "

She gave him a reassuring smile. "I was actually just thinking that it looked perfect like that." She picked up her coat, and to her surprise, he held it for her, slightly awkwardly between the cast and his cane, but the gesture touched her. "Wilson, you have my number if anything happens with Rachel."

Wilson smiled at both of them. "If anything happens with Rachel, which it won't, I'll deal with it. You two have fun."

Side by side they walked down the path to his car, and he held the door open for her. She slid inside, and he came around to the driver's side. "So," she said, "where are we going?"

House gave her a grin which was a combination of nervousness with his usual mischief and love of games peeking through behind it. "Prepare to be surprised." His voice sent shivers down her spine.

He started the car, and they were off.


	3. Chapter 3

Intense chapter here. Happy Labor Day, everybody. If you've never heard RPC2, you must listen to it, recorded at least, live if you ever get the opportunity. It's amazing.

(H/C)

The car sliced smoothly through the darkening city and out to the highway. Cuddy sat watching House, appreciating the fact that he wasn't driving like a maniac for once but also noticing just how tense he was. They had been driving in silence for some miles, and whatever he was thinking of, it was looming larger and larger in his thoughts. "Philadelphia?" she asked, as they passed a sign on the highway.

He relaxed a bit, getting into the game. "I told you, it's a surprise."

"House, there are restaurants in Princeton. You don't have to go to this much trouble."

"Ah, but the entertainment of the evening after the meal is NOT in Princeton, and it's too big to be portable."

She was getting more and more intrigued. "And that entertainment is . . . "

"A surprise," he repeated, the glint in his eyes letting her know he was enjoying this exchange. "You'll find out soon enough."

"Are you planning to tell me before we walk in?"

The muscles along his jaw tightened up again. "A little bit before then."

Her instincts kicked in like radar. It was that, the entertainment of the evening and whatever he intended to tell her before, that had him so uneasy any time he stopped to anticipate it. She tried a test question to confirm her guess. "What about the restaurant? Do I get to know that beforehand?"

Yes, he relaxed a fraction. Definitely something about the entertainment and telling her about it. Wilson had said he didn't know himself. What would House have planned to do in Philadelphia that he would be this uneasy about, even beyond nervousness about the date itself? "Oh, I don't know if I'll tell you the restaurant or not," he teased. "Might whet your appetite to stay in suspense."

"My appetite likes to know what to get whetted for," she protested. Okay, she would leave the entertainment, which seemed to be something significant for him, alone right now, but she would like _some_ information.

"Don't you trust me with the details of food selection?" he asked, shooting her a sidelong look, his tone making it clear that he was joking with her.

"House, you are marvelously talented in many things, but I must admit, your credentials on restaurant selection are unknown to me." Her tone in turn joined the game. "Besides, I've never liked too many surprises."

"Me, either. What's your reason? Are they too far beyond your control?"

"Bull's eye. Let me guess yours." She thought for a minute. Control was definitely one of her issues, but his were . . . "You can't prepare to face them without knowledge, so it leaves you vulnerable."

He tilted his head in salute. "You're good, Cuddy."

"Is that why you've never liked your birthday?" she asked without stopping to think first.

His features tightened up again. "No." She really hadn't been trying to trip him into his memories and obligingly backed off, calling herself a few choice names mentally, and after a mile or so of silence, he said, "I'll tell you that sometime. But not tonight."

"It's all right, House. I don't mind."

He glanced over at her, judging her sincerity, then abruptly jumped topics again. "The restaurant might start with an R."

Restaurants with an R. In Philadelphia. Hmmm. "Ralph's? The Italian restaurant?" Her mouth started watering immediately.

He nodded. "One of their best tables has our name on it."

"How did you arrange that on a busy night on short notice?"

"Cured a family member of his once."

Of course. House probably had a list a mile long of people who owed him favors, and while she doubted he called them in often, she also doubted he lost track of who was on the list and of their connections. Cuddy gave a content sigh. "I already love this evening."

"Hope you can still say that at the end of it." Philadelphia loomed up on the horizon, and he got off the highway and worked into the city. Soon thereafter, they were seated at what had been voted the best Italian restaurant in Philadelphia, owned by the same founding family since 1900.

Conversation over the meal was awkward to some extent, neither of them being gifted in small talk, but the silence that filled the gaps was comfortable. This wasn't House's element, but he really was trying, and she did appreciate it. The meal was superb, but she noticed that he didn't eat with much enthusiasm, and he was looking at his watch toward the end of it. "Are we on a deadline?" she asked.

"Not a tight one, but we'd probably better get going soon if we're going to have a few minutes before . . ." he trailed off again and fiddled nervously with the end of his cast.

Again the mysterious before. She knew better than to question him again, but her curiosity was peaking at this point.

They left the restaurant, and House drove to a city park, where he pulled the car into a spot and shut off the engine and lights. The place was nearly deserted after dark. House removed the car keys and toyed with them, tracing the jagged edges, and Cuddy forced herself with difficulty to wait patiently. House glanced at his watch again and took a deep breath.

"We're going to a concert," he started, looking not at Cuddy but out the windshield.

"Okay. Who are we seeing?"

"The Philadelphia Orchestra with a guest artist from China, a pianist. They're doing Rachmaninoff's Second Piano Concerto."

He hesitated there, and she stepped in, giving him a minute. "I have no doubt that your classical music knowledge exceeds mine, but I think I've heard of that one. It's famous, isn't it?"

He smiled slightly. "One of the best known concertos ever, and I'm sure you've heard at least parts of it, because it's been borrowed from extensively. Movies, songs, TV shows. Frank Sinatra used it. Eric Carmen's All By Myself - that's based off it. But none of the derivatives have half the power as the original." He glanced at his watch again. "Rachmaninoff had some severe problems himself in the years before writing it, and he actually dedicated it to his psychiatrist, Nikolai Dahl. This piece was his statement of recovery, of re-emergence as a composer, of his feeling like he was finally getting back on track after a string of failures. It was brilliant. An instant success." He took a deep breath. "It was the piece I heard the first time I ever went to a live symphony concert. I was already taking piano lessons and loving them, but that was still learning the language. Which was great - I've always loved languages. But I wasn't fluent yet. My piano teacher gave us two tickets, one for me and one for Mom, and said I needed to hear it, and Dad happened to be busy with some maneuvers that weekend. He never would have let us go. He thought piano was something for sissies. All music, actually. Mom getting me those lessons was one of the few times I remember her standing up to him on something. So we went to the concert, Mom and I, and never told him."

He paused for a minute there, and Cuddy didn't disrupt the silence that time. Something was coming. She could hear its approaching footsteps. "That night - was a glimpse of a totally different life. The music had so much passion, so much emotion, so much range in it, and watching that pianist . . . it was almost like watching someone make love to the keyboard with his fingertips. I was spellbound. Watching him, seeing someone totally fluent in what I was just learning, was like a study in possibility. Just how much there could be in life, not just in music, but in the world. That night, that music was like a call to keep on with the piano, with all my other studies, with trying to figure out who I really was and not just in trying to survive. It reminded me that there was a world out there beyond my father." He hesitated there and swallowed. "That was how I felt when I met you. A whole world of possibilities, but I wasn't sure still how to go after them. Dad always told me I'd fail, especially in relationships. I was too afraid to prove him right to try to prove him wrong. I think I lasted so long with Stacy because we didn't really HAVE a relationship that went too deep." He studied the keys in his hands. "This last two weeks has been like another glimpse of possibilities, but I don't know how to do this. I'm going to disappoint you on things. But I want to try. When I realized what this concert program was that was scheduled tonight, it was like a confirmation. Maybe it's not too late for the possibilities."

He fell silent and looked over at her, gauging her reaction. She didn't think she'd ever heard him put that many words together in his life on any emotionally charged topic. She had tears streaming silently down her face, and he reached out one-handed to brush them away. "Thank you so much for telling me that," she said. "I'm just as scared as you are, and I've got my own baggage, even if it's nothing like yours, but I want to try, too. It's all right to make mistakes, House. Maybe it isn't too late, like you said."

He was relaxing now as he realized that his little speech had hit home. That was what he'd been gearing himself up to all night. No wonder he had been nervous. She caught his right hand and squeezed the fingers. "I'll be listening tonight for the possibilities."

He smiled at her. Such a nice smile he had, even if rarely seen. Rare treasures were almost dearer. "We'd better be getting on to the concert hall. Time is running a bit tight, even though we get the good parking spaces. I want you to hear this." After a minute, when she nodded but didn't let go, he continued, "and I only have one good hand at the moment, and you're holding it hostage, which makes it a bit hard to start the car."

She immediately let go with a slight squeeze of apology, and he drove to the concert hall, where they joined the anonymity of the large crowd. Such a difference here from a baseball game. The reverent hush that fell across the audience as the lights went down was so complete that Cuddy thought you could have heard a pin drop.

Then the music started. It was a living, breathing entity, winding itself around her heart and her mind. Dramatic, powerful, passionate, lyrical, all of them in turn. She could imagine how powerfully it had hit the lonely, wounded, socially isolated boy whose life was pretty much defined at that point by his father. She was on House's left, and she reached over to catch his hand partway, wrapping her fingers firmly around it, cast and all. He watched the pianist, and she watched him in the darkened hall, his dimly lit profile seeming to illustrate everything that the pianist was pouring out. Conflict and resolution. Harmony and dissonance. She was mesmerized. She could also see and feel that his fingers were twitching slightly, as he lived the music in a way that she never could.

And Rachmaninoff, who had created this tremendous emotional statement of passion and beauty, had himself just been emerging from crisis and had dedicated it to his psychiatrist.

Maybe it wasn't too late, indeed.

The drive home was filled with conversation, all the earlier tension gone, both of them full of music and possibilities now. He talked to her some about his mother, how she had lived in denial but how that could almost be comforting at times - "the one thing that at least seemed normal, even if it was a lie." She told him more about her own family, including her annoying sister. They shared college reminiscences and PPTH memories. All too soon, they were back in Princeton, and he looked over at her inquiringly as he stopped at a light. One way would take her back to her place, the other to his. He left the decision totally to her. "Wilson said he'd stay all night if needed," she said, and he gave a soft exhale as if he'd been holding his breath and flipped the blinker on to head for his place.

Once inside his apartment, there was a moment while they both removed their coats. "So," he said. "Do you want something to drink? Something to eat?"

She looked at his vibrant eyes. "You want to kiss me, don't you?"

"I always want to kiss you," he replied, without a trace of sarcasm in his voice.

She reached for him, pulling his head down to her level, and neither of them were quite aware how they got down the hall to the bedroom from the entryway. There was only each other, and a symphony of sensation, and a world of possibility.


	4. Chapter 4

Here's chapter 4. Thanks for all the great reviews. Another intense chapter ahead - in fact, just assume that the next several are going to be intense. Remember the big hill on a roller coaster? Here we go . . .

(H/C)

House opened his eyes. Her unique scent was all over the bed, although her warmth was missing. Memories of last night's performance - both at and especially after the concert - flooded his mind, and he gave a contented sigh as he carefully sat up. He heard the toilet flush down the hall, and then her soft footsteps approached. She was already dressed, but she was smiling. "Good morning!" she said, seeing him awake.

"Mmmm. I hope it is for you, too," he replied, unable to totally repress the ripple of uncertainty beneath it all.

She climbed onto the bed, snuggling down next to him. "Oh, right, I actually hated last night. No doubt you could tell from my editorial comments." She kissed him. "It was wonderful, House. I was about to go start breakfast. What are you in the mood for?"

"Well, let me think about that for a minute," he joked, reaching for her. She couldn't help responding for a minute but then pulled back.

"Sorry, big guy, but I'll give you a rain check. It's already heading for 9:00, and I promised Wilson that I'd be back to take over with Rachel by 9:30 at the latest. I'm pushing it now. He said he has important plans for the day, and he needed to get ready."

House sighed but accepted it, reluctantly. "I'll hold you to the rain check, though. Literally." He gave her a squeeze of intention.

"What time is your appointment in Middletown?" She had been careful not to ask him too much about the psychiatrist, but she couldn't help wanting a few details. She wanted to be able to follow his day in thought, at least.

"1:30, and yes, I'll really go."

She kissed him again. "I wasn't thinking you were going to bail out, House. Just want to know when and how to be thinking about you." She gave him another kiss, then pulled back. "And I really have to get breakfast started now." She scrambled off the bed and looked back at him from the door. "You are getting up, right?"

He nodded. "It just takes me a minute first thing in the morning."

She immediately felt guilty for asking, remembering his statement of a couple of weeks ago about what was normal. "I'll be in the kitchen."

She was humming when he joined her several minutes later. "It's pretty much ready," she said, putting plates of scrambled eggs and bacon - for him at least - on the table.

He slipped into his chair and took out his array of pill bottles, counting out his breakfast dosage on each, then took them in one gulp and picked up his juice glass, raising it in a toast to her. "I wish you wouldn't do that," she protested. "You really are going to choke one day."

He grinned at her. "Are you sure you want to start worrying about me? It might get to be a full-time occupation."

"I think I can squeeze it in," she reassured him. "Actually, thinking about you already took up even more of my day than I've ever admitted."

"Likewise. Except I probably admitted it more, but the advantage of being me is that nobody actually believes you're serious, anyway." He wolfed down another bite of eggs. She was delighted to see how much appetite he had this morning. She knew he was still probably nervous about starting therapy, but last night was apparently so far outweighing the prospects of today. She hoped it would keep doing so.

"Speaking of worrying about you, I heard a forecast yesterday. The weather is going to be turning on us today; freezing rain or sleet beginning in the afternoon and heavy by tonight. If the roads start getting too bad, find a motel somewhere in Middletown. I'm kind of tied up with hospital business today anyway." She gave him a smile, wanting to make it clear that it wasn't that she didn't want his company. "But tomorrow is totally yours."

He spun his juice glass in his fingers. "I was thinking about hanging around Middletown a bit, anyway, at least a couple of hours. Mom said last week when we were talking schedules that she'd be driving through Princeton about mid day. I want to give her a chance to get totally past here. It would be just my luck to run into her at a gas station or pass her on the highway. I will watch the weather."

Cuddy pushed back from the table and stood up. "I'm sorry, House, but I really have to get going. Wilson said it was important." He stood up as well, and they shared a deeply satisfying kiss - not immediate urgency this time, but a promise for the future. "Have a good day today, and I'll see you tomorrow." She gave him a final squeeze. "I'm proud of you for doing this." His expression changed to almost bitterly wistful, and though he regained control of his features quickly, she caught it. "What is it?"

"It's just . . ." He hesitated, and she stood, giving him time in spite of being in a hurry. "That's a statement I haven't heard much of in my life."

"I'm proud of you?" He nodded, looking away, and she caught his chin and pulled his focus back to her. "Well get used to it. It goes right along with another one. I love you."

"I . . . love you, too." It was awkward but definitely sincere. She embraced him again, then reluctantly turned for the door.

"Bye, House."

"Bye, Cuddy."

(H/C)

Wilson was in the living room looking at his watch when she arrived - 9:28 - but he assaulted her with a barrage of questions as soon as she came in. "So? What happened? What did you do? How was it?"

Rachel cooed and reached from her swing for her mother, and Cuddy scooped her up. "Long story, but the Cliff's notes version is that it was unbelievable. He put together a perfect evening."

"How much of a perfect evening? Was there an encore?"

She grinned at him. "No, actually we sat up all night playing Scrabble." She laughed at his disappointed expression. "Yes, there was an encore. And let me tell you, handicapped isn't the word I'd use to describe him. If you want more of a report than that, ask him later. You'd better go get ready for . . . what is it you were doing that was so important, anyway?"

Wilson looked away, reminding her for just a second of House on a deflection. The image fled a second later. Wilson wasn't House, after all. "I'm . . . um . . . having lunch with somebody."

"A female somebody?" He was notorious around the hospital, after all. James Wilson, who will care for you in any and every way imaginable.

He nodded, definitely looking sheepish now. He clearly did not want to talk about this. She was glad for him, though, glad that he was maybe finding his stride again after the devastation of losing Amber. "I hope it works out as well as my date last night did."

He gave a soft exhale. "I hope so, too. Is House off to Middletown?"

"He was heading for the shower when I left. I think it's safe to say he's in the best possible mood this morning for starting therapy. I told him to stay there if the weather gets too bad tonight; we have a storm coming in, you know."

"Hope it isn't bad enough to interfere with your fundraiser. That is tonight, right?"

She sighed. They were profitable, but she actually had never enjoyed them. "Yes, a whole evening of wining and dining Princeton's richest in hopes of charming some of their money out of them. At least I'll have last night to think about while being bored."

He glanced at his watch again. "I'm happy for you . . . for both of you. I've _really_ got to go now, but I want more details later."

He seemed uncharacteristically nervous. This lunch date must be a big one. "Good luck, Wilson. Hope your lunch is successful."

"So do I," he said with feeling. The door closed behind him, and Cuddy was left with her daughter and her memories of the previous night - two highlights of life at the moment. She realized that she was humming again.

(H/C)

"James!" Blythe came in the door and gave him a friendly hug. "I'm so glad you suggested this, actually. I haven't seen you since the funeral, looking forward to catching up on things. How is Greg doing?"

"He's doing better. Lunch is almost ready. How was your drive?" Wilson forced the anger down, forced himself to be conversational and pleasant. Steady, slow, matter-of-fact. Present a case and let her draw her own conclusions. She needed to know this, and maybe she and House could have an actual typical mother-son relationship down the road after they had both worked through some things. He was doing them both a favor.

"Oh, the drive has been beautiful so far. They were saying on the radio that a storm might be coming in tonight, though."

"Right. Well, it is winter in New Jersey." He ushered her to the table and held her chair for her, then returned to the kitchen to dish up plates.

Blythe's eyes widened as he started putting lunch on the table. "James, you didn't need to go to all this trouble! We could have met in a restaurant."

"I like to cook." And they definitely needed a private venue for this. He sat down across from her and picked up his fork.

"So, tell me about Greg. How badly was he hurt when he fell into his desk? I could tell he was downplaying it."

"Yes, he was. He had a bad concussion, and he strained his bad leg and also broke his wrist. He is getting better, though. Still has a cast on, but aside from that and a healing scar on his temple, he's pretty well recovered physically."

Blythe shook her head. "Oh, Greg. All that from falling into his desk. He should have called me; I don't know why he's so reluctant to talk to people. Which wrist did he break?"

Wilson took a few deep breaths. "His left."

"I was wondering because he's broken that arm before when he was a child. He fell down the stairs."

Wilson took a double-fisted grip on his temper. Easy, easy. Take it slow. "Blythe, did he get hurt a lot when he was a boy?"

She nodded and finished chewing her current bite before answering. "Oh, all the time. So clumsy, he was. Practically every week he'd come up with something. Maybe he was just growing too fast; he's been a lot better since he became an adult. But yes, falling into his desk, that sounds exactly like him."

"Did you ever wonder why he and his father never got along?"

"Oh, that was obvious. John was military discipline, and Greg was free-thinking maverick. They didn't mix. They always rubbed each other the wrong way. I'm not surprised Greg resisted going to the funeral, but I really did think he needed some closure."

Wilson literally dropped his laden fork halfway to his mouth. "Closure? You think that funeral was CLOSURE?"

Blythe was starting to look confused. "Of course. What's wrong, James? Are you feeling okay? You're sweating."

Here they went. "House has told us a few things in the last few weeks - unintentionally. He never would have revealed it willingly, but after the concussion, certain things slipped out when he wasn't fully aware."

She still looked totally puzzled, and somehow, the living demonstration of her obliviousness made Wilson even angrier. "What things? What are you talking about?"

Wilson took a deep breath. "That his father was severely physically abusive to him throughout his childhood."

It was said.

Blythe stared at him, flabbergasted. "No, no. That's not true."

"I'm afraid it is true, Blythe."

"No." Her tone was firm. "John never would have done anything like that. Besides, I couldn't have missed it. There would have been signs."

Wilson's temper was slipping. "Signs like _what?_ Maybe like constant unexplained injuries or extreme tension between him and his father or lifelong trust issues or relationship difficulties with _anybody_?"

She shook her head. "No. It couldn't have been. It wasn't like that. He was clumsy. That was all."

Wilson lost the last hold on his temper. "CLUMSY? Did you ever see him play any sport, before his leg? Ever watch him run, see him on the lacrosse field? Even now, he can juggle anything, twirl that cane, throw his ball with perfect aim and reflexes. He's the most coordinated person I've ever met. It wasn't being clumsy, Blythe. It was ABUSE!" She was staring at him in disbelief. "You know what really happened when he fell down those stairs and broke his arm? His father pushed him because he was five minutes late getting home. His father tied him up at times, forced him to take ice baths, broke his toes repeatedly."

She protested, with growing horror in her eyes. "He only broke a toe once."

"I've seen the x-rays. It isn't just his word. Maybe you just got so used to seeing him limping that you didn't realize the other times." She was still shaking her head. "I saw him myself basically freak out a few years ago when Cuddy changed the carpet in his office without his knowledge. You know why that bothered him? Because he spilled juice on the carpet when he was a kid -" she nodded numbly, remembering that - "and after his father replaced it, he _nailed Greg down to the floor_ and left him there for hours. To this day, the scent of carpet glue knocks him straight back."

She shook her head more vigorously. "No, no, it _couldn't _be. I would have known. He would have told me."

"Most abuse victims are threatened with further consequences if they tell. Secrecy quickly gets to be an ingrained pattern. Are you saying that you cannot imagine your husband ever becoming violent?"

They had long since stopped eating. "I . . ." Her voice trailed off, growing horror in her eyes.

"He isn't making this up, Blythe. He never would have told us voluntarily, but he's been having nightmares so badly since he fell in his office that he has to be drugged just to be able to sleep. Falling reminded him of everything, because his father made him fall several times. He's been guarded, still, but just the little bit he's told us is unimaginable. Not just minor things. This was criminal-level abuse, going on for years."

"Oh, Greg." She stared down at her hands. "I couldn't have missed it, could I? Not if it was that bad?"

"I know how you feel. Cuddy and I don't know how we missed things in retrospect. But it is true, Blythe."

She looked around the room, as if she expected to see her son in a corner somewhere. "I've got to talk to him."

Wilson's agitation immediately tripled. "No, wait a minute. That's not a good idea. He's working through a lot right now."

"Which is exactly why I need to talk to him." Blythe pushed her chair back and came to her feet. Wilson got up himself, unable to sit still any longer, his swelling agitation forcing him into movement. He had imagined many outcomes to this talk, but the one that had never occurred to him was that Blythe would insist on an immediate conversation. He had been thinking of her reactions as if they were her son's, and his friend had only two coping strategies for the unexpected - deflect or run. Immediate confrontation wasn't anywhere close to making the list.

"Blythe, seriously, he needs some time right now, to work through things. He's seeing a psychiatrist now, has his first appointment today. . ." Wilson trailed off, stopping himself too late. He'd never meant to tell her that.

"He's seeing a psychiatrist? Today? To avoid me." She assembled that puzzle without any further details at all. Wilson didn't say anything, but his expression was confirmation enough. "I HAVE to talk to him."

"Blythe, I think you need to see someone yourself. Give yourself and him some processing time." Wilson was spinning around the room like a top at this point, seeing calamity ahead, trying desperately to shove the sandbags back into the breach on the dam and prevent total disaster.

"No, no. We need to talk about this."

"Blythe, PLEASE. This isn't a good idea. I know how he'd react right now; he's my friend."

"He's my SON! We have to get things straightened out. I have to make it right."

"MAKE IT RIGHT?" Anger joined terror, sweeping Wilson away in a flood of emotion. "How the HELL are you going to make it right? Especially in one conversation? He needs TIME, Blythe. You both do."

She was getting a stubborn, dogged expression that looked terrifyingly familiar. "I need to work this out with him. Right now. When will he be back?"

"Um, not until tonight. Or maybe tomorrow, depends on the weather."

"Then I'll go to his place and wait for him." She picked up her coat and purse and headed with determination for the door.

Wilson made a last-chance shot. "But you had a group to meet, a trip scheduled."

She whirled to glare at him. "Do you really think I could go off on vacation right now? No, I'm not leaving Princeton until this is totally settled, however long that takes. And I AM going to talk to my son." She opened the door and whirled out.

Wilson, left standing in the middle of his living room, ran both hands through his hair and only realized then that they were shaking. With a growing sense of dread, he grabbed his own coat and car keys and ran out of the apartment, leaving the lunch he'd spent two hours cooking sitting almost untouched on the table.

Blythe's car was just disappearing around the corner as he frantically started his.


	5. Chapter 5

"Dr. House? Come on in."

Dr. Jensen stepped back, holding his office door wide in invitation. Noting the cane in the right hand and the cast on the left, he did not offer to shake hands. House took a deep breath and walked into the office. He had been getting progressively more uncertain and nervous about this with each mile on the highway, but the memory of last night drove him on, as well as seven priceless words from this morning. _I'm proud of you for doing this._ He might well disappoint her eventually, but he wasn't going to quit before he even got started. She deserved a genuine effort.

The office was a mixture of the expected and unexpected. There was indeed the classic couch, but there were also a variety of chairs, a few different styles. The desk was a genuine antique and reassuringly not anally organized, and there were books lining one wall and, on the other, a guitar. His eyes lingered on it. Then he studied the seating options and took the most upright and uncomfortable-looking of them, which turned out to be not nearly as uncomfortable as he had expected.

Jensen had been waiting in the doorway, watching this. Where a new patient chose to sit was always intriguing to him, a first clue, and he hadn't missed the way this man had hesitated in his sweeping assessment of the room at the guitar. Jensen moved behind his desk and sat down, looking at the man in front of him. The uneasiness and discomfort were standard. The searing intelligence in the eyes was not. Some people walked in and couldn't wait to start telling their story, almost like a spring bubbling up, but he could tell that this one was going to require some fishing first, would need to be directed to whatever the main topic would be. "So, Dr. House. What are you a doctor of?"

Not the opening question he had expected. "I'm head of diagnostic medicine at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Double specialty in nephrology and infectious diseases."

Jensen indicated the cast with a nod. "Did you have an accident?"

"Two and a half weeks ago. I tripped and fell in my office."

"Hurting yourself badly?" Jensen had also noted the fresh scar down the temple, which would have been a bad place for any sort of impact injury.

"Not really."

Oh, this one was going to be interesting. "Were you hospitalized?"

"Three days - and then left AMA." House expected the why on leaving and was mildly surprised when Jensen diverted again.

"Why did you fall?"

"Tripped, like I said. Bum leg, in case you didn't get that part from the cane and the limp."

"Actually, I was thinking when you walked in that you are exceptionally coordinated and graceful for someone with a disability." True, but he also had noted the slight tightening of the eye muscles when House mentioned tripping in the first place, just as he noted now that his statement truly surprised House. "You don't think of yourself as coordinated and graceful?"

House immediately jumped back to the earlier question, unable to resist deflecting from his feelings to other people's actions. Confidentiality applied here, after all, and Cuddy's professional reputation wouldn't be damaged. "Actually, my boss planted a trip wire in the door of my office. I hit it square, tripped across my office, and hit my head on the corner of my desk falling. Also put out my hand to try to catch myself, which I'll admit was stupid." He raised the cast in illustration.

"Why would your boss place a trip wire in the office of a disabled employee?"

House's eyes diverted, going automatically to the guitar. "It was my fault."

Oh, this one was _really_ going to be interesting. "What could you have possibly done to deserve being deliberately tripped and made to fall? She could have seriously injured you. She apparently _did._"

"No, what she did was nothing." That was stated as absolute fact. There was no resentment whatsoever against her.

Bingo. "What did other people do?" Jensen asked. House's eyes were all over the room now, mostly books to guitar and back again. Jensen would have offered to let him hold it - the man clearly was a musician; not only his professional awareness of the guitar but his long, sensitive fingers screamed it - but with the cast at the moment, it would have been a further emphasis of awkwardness and disability. He stayed quiet, giving his patient time.

_I'm proud of you for doing this._ House took a deep breath. "My, um, father . . . did some things."

Jensen leaned forward slightly in his chair. "Did he ever make you trip and fall?" House's eyes were fixed in his lap now, his right hand fiddling with the end of the cast. He nodded slowly. "So your fall two and a half weeks ago reminded you of everything?" Long pause, and then House nodded again. Jensen thought it was time, with the central issue on the table now, to back away a bit and let his patient adapt for a minute to the idea of someone else knowing before returning to that. "So why did you choose to come clear from Princeton to me? Did you want a psychiatrist who didn't know you?"

House gratefully grabbed at the diversion. "I'm actually avoiding clinic duty."

"Avoiding . . . clinic duty?"

"There's a free clinic at the hospital. All of the doctors have to put in time there, but the patients are absolute morons. STD, cold, STD, cold. Very boring."

"You don't like being bored, do you?"

"Does anybody?"

"So you were scheduled to work in the free clinic today? My secretary said you had specifically asked for a weekend appointment."

"No, _she_ offered me three hours off of clinic duty in exchange for every one I spent talking to a shrink."

Jensen noted the assumed antecedent. His boss, presumably, who was clearly more than a boss to him, although no doubt there was some awkwardness there, too. "So she bribed you to get you into therapy? That doesn't bother you?"

"Bribing is an art form. We're good at . . . um. . . negotiating. We do it all the time on the job."

"Did she just find out about your father's actions? Did you tell her after you fell?"

House tightened up again. "I didn't mean to tell." That line, almost sounding like it could have come from a small, lost boy, was one Jensen had heard many times. Amazing how even decades after the fact, the ingrained silence and fear of retribution were still present.

"Did you have a closed head injury in addition to the cut?"

"Bad concussion. She was there waiting for me to wake up, and I started having one of the nightmares."

_One _of the nightmares. "So your boss extrapolated from what she heard and saw that your father had been abusive." It was the first time Jensen had used the word. "And she bribed you with clinic hours to get you into therapy." House nodded. "How often do you usually have nightmares?"

"Not much. Couple of times a month, maybe."

"And since you fell?"

House stared at the cast again. "Multiple times a night."

"Would you like a prescription for something to help you sleep at the moment?"

"She gave me some zolpidem. With it, I'm sleeping better than I ever have."

Add in chronic sleep difficulties to the mix, in addition to lifelong periodic nightmares even before the current escalation. "One thing doesn't add up, Dr. House."

"Only one?"

"You are getting three hours off clinic duty for each one. So today credits you with three hours. Yet you have deliberately added a 2-hour drive, making the total you're putting into this five hours. I assume she didn't specify a specific practitioner or location?" House shook his head. "So you actually are still costing yourself two hours today with nothing in return. Again, why did you come from Princeton to see me?"

His eyes fled to the guitar again, then back to the cast. Jensen let the silence lengthen. "I'm avoiding my mother."

(H/C)

After the appointment, House retreated to a mall and sat there on a bench, people watching. His nerves were still a bit jangled, but he actually had been impressed with Jensen. The man knew when to stop pushing, when to back away. Talking was an unaccustomed and atrophied muscle, but House did feel a little bit better, and there was a card for his next appointment in his pocket. Maybe this would do some good, even aside from avoiding his mother and clinic duty. _I'm proud of you for doing this._

He glanced at his watch and got up, heading for the parking lot. He'd been at the mall a few hours, and Blythe should be well past Princeton now. The sky was totally gray, and it had started raining steadily, a driving, cold rain, but the temperature was still hovering just above the freezing mark. The roads shouldn't be icy. He'd drive back to Princeton tonight, and maybe after playing the piano a bit and smoothing off his nerves, he'd see if Cuddy was busy tonight. She'd mentioned hospital stuff today but not specific times and hadn't said evening. She'd probably appreciate a report, and he'd tell her that he was going back. And maybe, she would continue to be proud of him.

He started the car and headed for home.

(H/C)

The parking situation outside his apartment building was totally out of hand, some idiots across the street having a party, cars lining both sides and no space available right in front. House didn't want to put the car in the garage down the road yet, hoping to take it back out tonight, but he wound up having to park a half block away anyway. He limped back along the sidewalk, placing the cane carefully. Rain always made his steps that much more cautious, waking up the ever-present fear of falling. It was still hovering just on the edge of being icy, not quite there yet but cold and dismal. He was glad to reach his building and get inside.

He unlocked the door, entered, and skidded to a dead halt, almost slipping in his own doorway from stopping too fast. Wilson and Blythe were sitting on his couch, and both of them rocketed to their feet like jacks-in-the-box as he came in. Blythe launched herself at him. "Oh, GREG!" She was wrapped around him like an octopus. "I am SO, SO SORRY! For everything. James told me everything. I don't know how I could have missed it, but I am SO SORRY." She was in tears.

House stared over her to Wilson, his blue eyes stunned with shocked disbelief. "You told her _everything?" _

Blythe was still sobbing. "Yes, yes, he told me everything. Oh Greg, I am SORRY. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

The words grated on his mind, leaving it raw and bleeding, taking him straight back to the top of the stairs. _Words don't mean anything. And I'll prove it to you. I'm sorry, Greg_.

Apparently, friendship and promises didn't mean much either.

Blythe was still clinging to him, sobbing out her apologies over and over again. Wilson was standing in the middle of the living room with helpless hands flapping powerlessly in mid air. House abruptly spun, almost falling, his cane slipping on the hardwood floor. Blythe grabbbed him more tightly to steady him, and he shook her hands off. "Let me GO!" She tightened up, resisting, and the hands around him suddenly became his father's. He struck out, fighting frantically, almost blind with memories and betrayal, his chest tightening up until he was literally having difficulty breathing.

Blythe abruptly realized that something more was wrong here. She released him, backing up a step to look at him more clearly. He was sweating, his eyes weren't totally focused, and his labored and uneven breathing could be heard throughout the room. "Greg, are you okay?"

Free of the imprisoning hands, he bolted, careening out the door and slamming it behind him, literally falling on the stairs outside and hauling himself back up, barely noticing the pain in his leg, heading down the sidewalk toward his car at his fastest limp, getting _away._


	6. Chapter 6

Thanks for all the reviews! Bonus chapter for today due to schedule, but they won't always come this fast. And we aren't close to the bottom of the big hill yet, still hurtling our way down it. This story will give you a workout. Enjoy!

(H/C)

Cuddy was humming as she walked up the garden path to her front door after midnight. The fundraiser had gone well, House was actually opening up to her, the previous evening still had her soul singing, PPTH was running as smoothly as it was possible for a large hospital to run, and overall, life was rolling along quite satisfactorily at the moment. She had wondered several times through this day, both before and during the fundraiser, how the first therapy session had gone for House, but she knew better than to call his cell phone and ask. She couldn't push him. She'd see him tomorrow anyway, and he could tell her whatever he chose to share.

She reached her front door and once again, almost like a replay of that night over two weeks ago, nearly tripped over him. House was slumped against her door, head lolling to one side, eyes closed.

"House! What's wrong?" She dropped to her knees, feeling his pulse - strong but slow. Leaning down to him also assaulted her nose with what smelled like an entire brewery. She realized for the first time in the dim light that he was clutching an empty bourbon bottle in his good hand, cradling it like a teddy bear, and two more empty bottles - one bourbon, one scotch - were next to him. He was totally plastered.

The wave of disappointment crashed through her, leaving her optimism of a few minutes earlier drenched and shivering. This was his response to therapy? Had he decided that it was easier to run away again, after two weeks of tentatively sharing? Would he ever be able to move beyond running? She sighed. "House." She shook his shoulder. "House! Come on, you can't sleep out here." She tried to pry the empty bottle out of his fingers and got her first response, as he tightened up on it and tried to roll it into himself, protecting his treasure.

"'smine. Need it," he slurred heavily, eyes never opening.

"You've had more than enough. What you need is a good strong cup of coffee, plus some dry clothes." Her voice trailed off as she suddenly realized that his clothes _were _wet. He was wearing a coat this time, at least, although not a heavy one and not buttoned; it hung open, and his shirt at the gap was wet. His jeans clung to his legs. How long had he been out here in the cold February rain? She quickly put a hand against his forehead. He was running a fever. Great. The king of self-destruction had returned to his throne. "Come on, you idiot. Let's get inside and see what you've done to yourself this time." Disappointment took a back seat to practicality for the moment, but it definitely did not leave the car.

"Jus' stay here," he muttered. "Don' wanna bother you."

"No, sorry, but you can't wither up and die in self-pity on my doorstep. You're too hard to step over, and I need this door. Come on, House. Up!" She scrambled to her feet and tried to haul him upright.

He seemed to shrink back into the concrete. "Leave me 'lone," he insisted, the words trailing off as his head fell sideways against the door again.

The rattle of the locks warned her, and she just had time to grab him more securely before the door opened, preventing his total collapse. The sitter stared from her employer to the wet, huddled wreck at her feet. "Dr. Cuddy? Is everything okay?"

"Just fine," Cuddy replied. She tugged again on House's arm, but he was only semiconscious and obviously wasn't going to help her out anyway. She wasn't sure if he would be able to stand even if he wanted to. "Could you get hold of his other arm and give me a hand here?" The sitter doubtfully reached down, almost as if she were afraid he would bite. He didn't react. "Grab hold of him. Careful of that right leg." They managed with extreme difficulty to get House levered to his feet and propped against the doorframe, having to hold him there to keep him from just sliding back down. The sitter's nose wrinkled. Cuddy shifted around to the right side and tucked herself under his arm. "Get on his other side and put his arm over your shoulders. He's got a cast on that wrist; don't hit yourself with it. It's okay, he isn't going to hurt you." He wasn't capable of hurting anyone at the moment. Except himself, she added bitterly. "Okay, let's try to get him to the couch." Between them, they maneuvered his limp, stumbling form into her living room. He collapsed into the cushions with a slight groan and then raised the empty bottle, which he still held, to his lips. His eyes still hadn't opened. Cuddy wrenched it away from him, twisting his fingers to get him to let go, and put it down firmly on the coffee table out of reach.

Then she went back to the doorway, picked up her purse, and counted out the money. "Thank you so much for staying late tonight. These fundraisers are a pain sometimes, but they do bring in a lot of money for the hospital." She held out the evening's earnings. "How's Rachel?"

"Um, she's asleep. She's fine." The sitter looked at the pitiful heap of House on the couch. He looked like something that needed to be swept up and thrown away. "Do you need any help here, Dr. Cuddy? I didn't have anything else to do tonight."

"No, thanks. I've got it under control." Cuddy wished she felt half as confident as she sounded. "You can go now."

The sitter accepted her dismissal reluctantly. "I'll be glad to keep her again, any time. Just call." This place was better than a soap opera some nights.

"Thanks, I will." Cuddy saw her out, closed the door, then turned back with a sigh to her unexpected guest. How was it possible to go from last night's world of possibility, from his excellent mood of this morning, to getting dead drunk out in the rain not even a day later? She loved him, but he was enough to leave anyone dizzy. "How long have you been here?" He didn't reply, and she shook him, rather roughly. "HOUSE!"

He flinched. "Don' hafta yell."

"Apparently I do. How long have you been here?"

"Came from my place - an' the liquor shtore. Did'n wanna bother you."

"I wasn't even here. I was at a fundraiser." He was starting to shiver in the room's warmth, and she sighed. "Wait here." Not that he was capable of much movement at the moment. She went to her laundry room, picking up some clean clothes still here from his stay two weeks ago, and returned. "Okay, let's get you changed before you give yourself pneumonia - again. You just got off antibiotics a few days ago. Are you going to keep trying this trick until you succeed in killing yourself?" She worked his coat off him, rolling him from side to side, and unbuttoned his shirt.

She was less than gentle, and he pulled back slightly from her hands. "Cold," he muttered.

"Actually, you're running a fever. I'll see how high and give you something in a minute. When did you take your last Vicodin?" She put the dry shirt on him. It was like dressing an oversized limp doll. "House! When did you take your pills?"

He half shrugged. "First bottle."

"Which was when? When did you get here?"

"Eight," he replied. She shook her head. Over four hours, thus beating his previous record of three. Was he determined to freeze himself into a permanent part of her garden path decor? She unzipped his pants and worked them off him. He was neither resisting nor making lewd comments. She put on the dry pants and then carried his wet clothes to her laundry room, picked up a blanket from the bedroom, and came back to cover him up. She had also grabbed the thermometer, which she inserted into his mouth. He sighed softly as the blanket wrapped around him, but he still hadn't opened his eyes.

"Open your eyes, House," she demanded. He didn't respond, and she pried one and then the other open. His pupils were constricted and responded only sluggishly to the light. Yep, he was indeed drunk. She let his lids fall shut and sighed in exasperation. She removed the thermometer and checked it. 101.5. That was with acetaminophen on board, but if his statements were accurate, it had been several hours. She'd give him some aspirin as a supplemental antipyretic in a minute. "Why do you do this to yourself?" she asked him.

Surprisingly, her question got a response. "You lied," he slurred.

"What?" She had bent over backwards the last two weeks to support him, not to push him, to let him set the pace, and he was blaming his bender on _her?_.

"Said you would'n tell. You n' Wilshon. Promised."

She remembered telling him that, assuring him that neither of them would share his secret without his permission, but she hadn't. "House, we haven't told anybody."

"Wilson."

"He didn't either."

"Lied," he repeated. "Ever'body lies." He tried to sit up suddenly and nearly fell off the couch, all coordination washed away on the sea of alcohol. She caught him, stabilizing him. "Lemme go." He tried to bat at her hands but missed, seeing multiple sets of them. "I'll go 'way. Go back out."

"Oh, no. You can't come freeze yourself on my doorstep and then tell me to leave you alone. We've already covered that once." She firmly pushed him back down and pulled the blanket up again. "And you're definitely not going back outside in the rain. I hate to think what your blood alcohol level is, and you're trying to get sick again, too. You're in no condition to go anywhere right now. Why did you come to my place if you don't want me to help you?"

"Jus' wanted to be near," he mumbled. "Wasn' gonna bother you." He apparently gave up on escape and instead rolled his head to the side, trying to hide from the world in the back of her couch.

She sighed again and decided that interrogation would be much more productive when he was sober. "I'm going to go get you some meds, okay? And something to drink." She fished through her cabinet for aspirin, as well as a multiple vitamin - the B's would help with the alcohol - then got a glass of water. He was on the edge of unconsciousness again when she returned, and he did not resist beyond some incoherent mumbling when she carefully raised his head, put the pills one at a time into his mouth, and held the glass to his lips. Afterward, she propped up his bad leg on a pillow, placed his casted wrist where he wasn't lying against it, tucked the blanket more tightly around him, and retreated to the kitchen with the phone. She took a minute before dialing to stare at the closed cabinets as if they concealed the answer. Last night had been too good to be true, apparently. She had expected some peaks and valleys in a relationship with him, and she knew he was working through a lot right now, but she hadn't expected such a total and desperate retreat from everything within hours of their first night. This wasn't just a standard House deflection, and even House in usual form did not drink like this. The one thing she had been able piece together from his drunken comments was that he wanted to just stay out in the rain on her doorstep and actually hadn't meant to be discovered tonight - although thank God she had. He really would have been sick by morning. Idiot. It was like he either didn't care about himself or even deliberately wanted to give himself a relapse. Speaking of which, she'd better get busy with her phone call. Her own crushing disappointment would have to be shelved for a while.

Wilson answered the phone on the first ring, obviously not having looked at the caller ID. "Hello?" he said urgently.

"Wilson, it's me. Can you pick up another round of antibiotics and bring them over here? Bring some injectable as well as a full prescription of oral." House was basically passed out at this point, and she wasn't sure she could safely get him to swallow another pill.

"For House? Is he there with you? Is he okay?" The questions tumbled out like a waterfall.

"Yes, he's here. He's trying to turn himself into a popsicle, totally wasted, and running a fever, so he's not capable of giving me much of a story at the moment. Apparently his first day of therapy didn't go too well, so he immediately reverted to his usual coping strategies." She couldn't keep the disappointment out of her tone.

Wilson sighed. "It wasn't therapy. It was me." Slowly, he started to fill her in.

When Cuddy left the kitchen five minutes later, it was no longer House in whom she was disappointed.


	7. Chapter 7

Quick Saturday update. Enjoy! Aren't you glad these fanfic characters aren't real? Otherwise, they might have to take out a contract on us writers for all we put them through.

(H/C)

Cuddy walked back into the living room and knelt by the couch, putting a hand on House's forehead. He didn't respond at all to her touch, totally overcome by the alcohol flowing along with betrayal through his veins. She sighed. "I swear I didn't know, House," she said, although she knew he couldn't hear her. "I didn't know Wilson was meeting her. I would have tried to stop it." Yet part of her felt that she should have seen it coming. She knew from Wilson's comments over the last two weeks how angry he was at Blythe, an anger she shared. He had even said he'd like to rip her apart verbally. She knew his past history of simply having to do something, of deciding what was best for his friend and truly believing it, even if his friend might not agree. Just like with Tritter. She should have predicted something like this.

She cringed, imagining the encounter at House's apartment when he had been blindsided not only with his mother's fresh knowledge but with his friend's betrayal. He no doubt wondered if Cuddy might be a conspirator, too, if she had sat there last night with him discussing his mother while already knowing Wilson's plans for the very next day. No wonder he'd gone straight to a liquor store to stock up on false escape. She was actually surprised that he hadn't . . .

She had been leaning against the couch, stroking his still-damp hair softly, but she suddenly sat straight up, reaching frantically for his neck to check the pulse again. Strong and slow, just as before. She counted his breaths, also slow but steady, then picked up the penlight off the coffee table where she'd put it down earlier and once again checked his pupils. They were tight, sluggish, his beautiful blue eyes dull and bloodshot. She quickly got up and headed to the laundry room, shaking his wet clothes until she heard the rattle of pills. Reaching into that pocket brought out a card, which she set aside for the moment, and three bottles, Vicodin, prescription-strength ibuprofen, and omeprazole, his new maintenance regime. The zolpidem, perhaps fortunately, would be at home on his nightstand, since he didn't take it throughout the day. She quickly opened each bottle, comparing the refill dates with quantities, but far from having extra missing, he actually had more there than should have been on the latter two. He hadn't taken his final dose this evening, probably had meant to eat when he got home. He had apparently taken Vicodin later, as he'd said, but only the two pills scheduled. He actually had been taking his meds as prescribed this last week.

Three bottles of liquor on an empty stomach. Well, minus what he had spilled all over him as his binge progressed, which had obviously been a good bit. His clothes stank of bourbon. She hoped he had wasted most of that last bottle. Even so, the alcohol was certainly enough to explain his nonresponsiveness without any other contributing factors. She forced her heart rate to slow down. Physically, it hadn't done him much good, but he would sleep it off, no real need to take him to PPTH as long as his vitals were stable and he hadn't mixed it with a Vicodin overdose. The fever was another concern. She'd have to keep an eye on him tonight, and if he started getting worse even on antibiotics, she would call an ambulance. It was 34 degrees outside, with a cold, driving rain. Her heart broke at the thought of him coming to her doorstep, wanting to be near but not wanting to talk to her, not sure if she and Wilson were in collusion, not wanting to inflict his freshly broken self into her evening even if they weren't. There he'd sat out in the rain for four hours trying to drink away the pain.

She knew that the damage from tonight went way beyond what could be escaped even temporarily with alcohol.

Setting the pills down, she looked at the somewhat-damp card. He had made a second appointment with the psychiatrist for next week, had been going to continue therapy. "Oh, House," she sighed, feeling guilty for her initial reaction on finding him tonight. At least he wouldn't remember later the disappointment in her voice, the words of exasperation, the roughness in her hands. She only hoped Wilson's meddling hadn't shattered his resolve to go back to Middletown. "Please don't give up," she pleaded with his clothes. "I'll give you life off clinic duty if that would keep you trying on this."

Wilson's knock startled her out of her thoughts, and she hurried down the hall to open the door. The oncologist walked through the doorway and smack into her open hand. He staggered back against the door frame, his balance rocked briefly by the force of her blow. "You absolute IDIOT!" she hissed, trying to keep her voice down for Rachel's sake. She doubted that a live performance of the 1812 Overture would wake House up at the moment. "He was just starting to trust us with it. Why the hell would you decide you needed to bring his mother into this?"

Wilson straightened up again, her palm print standing out bright red on his remorseful face. "I didn't mean for it to play out like that."

"What did you think she'd say? 'Oh, thank you for telling me. I need to go think that over.'"

He sighed. "I really thought she'd just deny it or deflect or something but then go off to start processing on her own. That's what he would have done."

"Haven't you ever noticed, Wilson, that most people don't react to things the same way he does? You can't use him as your gold standard for human behavior. She's his MOTHER! Not a great one, admitted, but there's no way she'd just walk away once she knew."

"Look, I screwed up in predicting her reaction; I realize that, but she did need to know," the oncologist insisted. "This is even more her business than it is ours."

Cuddy clenched her fists to keep her fingers from hitting him again as they were longing to do, and he misunderstood the gesture and took a step back. "Of COURSE she needed to know," Cuddy said. "But WE didn't need to be the ones to tell her. That should have gone to him, when he was ready to have that conversation. But he wasn't ready yet, Wilson. Not even close. He just started therapy today!"

"He never would have told her, just kept up the charade. You should have heard them on the phone."

"I think you're wrong, but if he was never ready to tell her, then she should have stayed ignorant. IT WASN'T OUR PLACE!" She forced herself to do deep breathing. "He actually was discussing his mother with me last night, and now he probably thinks I was in on it and sat there putting one over on him and just pretending throughout that conversation. He knows how much the two of us have talked about everything lately. You know what he was saying to me tonight? He was barely coherent, but he kept saying that I had lied. Which I did. And you know why? Because two weeks ago, right after you had found out, he was worried how much further things might go, and I unconditionally promised him that neither one of us would ever tell anyone without his permission."

Wilson's eyes fell. "You didn't mention that to me," he mumbled.

"It didn't occur to me that I NEEDED to. This is his life, Wilson. His screwed-up childhood. His horrible past. Yes, it's horrible, but it is HIS. Not OURS. We can't just decide independently what needs to be done with it and cut him out of that decision. I know we've managed him a few times in the past, but we were wrong. We can't do it anymore and ESPECIALLY not on this subject." She took a few more deep breaths. "And then you let him walk into that tonight and get blindsided."

"I spent the whole afternoon trying to convince Blythe to wait and give him time. I was thinking . . ." Wilson spread his hands helplessly. "Okay, I was hoping that I'd still be able to get through to her, find the right way to say it, and he wouldn't have to know just yet."

"Where is Blythe?"

"Still at his place. She was in the bathroom when you called; I just told her before I left that I needed to get to the hospital for a patient. I had told her earlier he probably went off to get drunk. Hadn't thought of checking here, since I knew you were gone all evening; I was just hoping he'd call from some bar for a ride eventually. Blythe refuses to leave Princeton, says she couldn't go on vacation after learning this. She's still determined to talk to him. To 'make it right,' she said."

Cuddy shook her head in disbelief. "Make it _right_?"

"That's what she kept saying all afternoon. I think he freaked her out at the end, though. He tried to leave, and she physically grabbed him. He lost it then. He was either having a flashback or a panic attack, and when he got loose, he just bolted. She was shocked enough that I did convince her not to chase after him right then when he ran out of the apartment."

"Well, congratulations on making ONE correct decision today." The edge on her tone could have been used as a weapon. Wilson flinched as if it had. "Okay, damage control. Your assignment is Blythe." He flinched again. "You keep her away from him, at least for the moment while he recovers some physically. I don't care what you have to do; he does NOT need to see her this weekend. I'll try to talk to him, once he's sober enough to listen." She turned to look at their friend. "If he'll talk to me at all, that is. He probably isn't going to want to talk to anybody."

Wilson carefully moved around her, keeping a safe distance, and went over to the couch, looking down at his motionless friend. Only the slow rise and fall of the chest indicated that House was alive. Wilson reached out to check his temperature and frowned. "How long was he out there?"

"About four hours, sitting at my doorstep in the rain. He was pretty wet." The oncologist winced. "And if I hadn't tripped over him coming home, he would have been there all night. He didn't know I wasn't here, Wilson."

Wilson looked confused now, trying to piece together the puzzle that was House. "He didn't know about the fundraiser?"

She shook her head. "I mentioned I had some hospital duties today but not exact details and times, and you know he never reads the general hospital announcement emails. We really had better things to do than exchange schedules last night." Last night seemed an eternity ago at this point.

"So he thought you were home but just sat down outside? Why come here if he didn't want to see you?"

"He didn't want to bother me, he said. He said that several times. Also wondered if I was in on it; not that he said that outright, but I'm sure it's true; he was talking about how I'd lied. He actually wanted me to leave him out there. He even tried to go back out in the rain after I got him in and dried off, but he couldn't sit up straight, much less walk." Wilson looked even guiltier than he had. "He either plain didn't care or he was deliberately trying to give himself pneumonia." Speaking of which, she reached for the first time for the PPTH pharmacy bag. "Are those the antibiotics?"

"Yes. And some morphine, in case you need it; I thought he might not be able to keep Vicodin down for a while when he wakes up." Wilson gave her the bag and ran his fingers through his hair, leaving it standing up on end in a very un-Wilson-like way. He turned to address his comatose friend directly. "I didn't mean it to work out like that, House. Really. I'd undo it if I could. I'm sor . . . I apologize."

Cuddy came back over to the couch herself. "You should. But later on. You get out, and same as Blythe, I don't want to see you anywhere close to him for the rest of this weekend. You've done enough damage. Give him a little space, even if a little is all he'll be able to get."

Wilson's nervous hands fiddled with the blanket, smoothing it needlessly over his friend. "Okay. I'll go." He turned and started for the door.

"Wilson," Cuddy demanded. He stopped and looked back at her. "Be sure you take your meds."

He sighed. A pill wasn't going to fix this. "Right, I will. Call me if you need anything." He left, and the forlorn droop of his shoulders was almost enough to make her feel sorry for him. Almost.

She turned back to House. He hadn't shifted an inch during that entire conversation. She checked his pulse and respirations again, checked his cast, which fortunately had been protected by his coat more than most of him had, and then let her hands search his leg. No spasms at the moment - he probably didn't have a tense muscle in his body right now - but it wouldn't thank him tomorrow. Finally, she took his temperature again, which had risen to 101.8 in spite of the aspirin. She decided to sleep out here tonight in her recliner, where she could monitor both his fever and his slow recovery from the alcohol and take further steps if needed. She really didn't want to take him to the hospital - too public for someone with all privacy shredded anyway - but she would if she had to.

She opened the pharmacy bag and drew up an injection of antibiotics; it definitely would not be safe to try to give him a pill at the moment. Then she took out an alcohol swab and pulled his right arm out from under the blanket, rolling up the sleeve. She swabbed past any possibility of a germ, then spoke to him softly, even though she knew he couldn't hear. "House, I'm going to give you an injection of antibiotics. Little prick. Okay?" Even then, she hesitated. She hated to slide the needle into his skin, to inflict more pain on him, even if minor. He'd already been through so much. Blinking to keep tears from blurring her vision, she administered the shot, and then, after carefully pulling out the needle and setting it aside, she put her head down on his chest and let herself cry. She was getting his shirt damp again in a small spot, but her tears were hot, at least. Outside, the cold February rain kept beating down mercilessly on the darkened city. She couldn't help feeling that his spirit was still out there, huddled against her doorway, alone, choosing the cold rain at the moment over trying to come in.


	8. Chapter 8

It was a long and restless night for Cuddy. She snatched naps of an hour or so in between tending to Rachel and monitoring House. He never moved, and his temperature hovered just under 102 all night. She gave him another injection of antibiotics in mid morning. Most of the morning was spent playing with Rachel. After lunch, her daughter went down for her nap, tired out from all the stimulation, and Cuddy returned to the living room to sit down across from him in the recliner again, keeping vigil, counting his breaths.

It was nearly 1:00 when he started showing signs of returning to consciousness. His breathing quickened, and he turned his head slightly, trying to burrow even further into the back of her couch. His face tightened up in pain. Cuddy quickly got up and came over to him. "House." She put a hand on his arm.

He cautiously cracked one eyelid and almost immediately slammed it shut again as the light assaulted him. His head was pounding like an entire live band was performing in it, heavy on the percussion, and his stomach flipped in time to the beat. "Umff," was all he could manage at first. His mouth felt like cotton batting.

Cuddy. He suddenly realized that it was her there with him, her hand on his arm, and that he was lying down and was covered with something soft. He remembered coming to her house after leaving his apartment, sitting down in the rain outside to at least be close to the memory of the night before as it dissipated, and toasting disappointment and shattered illusions, but there his recall ended. He had no idea how he'd gotten - into her place? He cracked an eyelid again. Yes, he was in her living room, on her couch, and she was kneeling beside him. She was beautiful as always, even not dressed up for work, but the guilt in her eyes was unmistakable. He turned away.

"House." Her voice was calling him back from the darkness. "How are you feeling?"

His eyes screwed shut even tighter. "You brought me in?"

"Yes."

He scowled. "Should have left me out there. You and Wilson can run my life just fine without me. Think I'll go on permanent vacation and leave you to it."

She sighed. "House, I . . ."

It was then that his stomach started informing him more urgently that it refused to take the double insult of scotch and bourbon lying down. "Got to get to the bathroom," he said, cutting her off, and sat up quickly, throwing off her hands and the blanket. The room shifted and wavered around him, and his leg immediately locked up at the abrupt change in position. Both hands grabbed for it, forgetting, and he hit himself in the thigh with the cast. He'd only thought he was in pain before. He'd been wrong.

So much for making it to the bathroom. He doubled over, gagging, and Cuddy quickly grabbed a trash can that had been beside the couch. She held it with one hand, rubbing soothing circles on his back with the other, as he threw up what seemed to be even more than he'd drunk last night. It tasted even more bitter coming back up than it had going down, leaving his already sore throat feeling like it was on fire. The retching finally stopped when he was beginning to wonder if he was throwing up his stomach lining now and would wind up simply turning himself inside out. He stayed doubled over, utterly miserable and afraid to move again and make it worse. Electric tidal waves shot out from his thigh, crashing over him and threatening to drag him under. The world was a kaleidoscope of pain.

He heard words at a distance, as if hearing them underwater, but couldn't understand them through the pounding pulse in his head. Cool, gentle fingers brushed against the side of his heated neck and then withdrew. He was dimly aware that Cuddy had left, but he didn't open his eyes, afraid to add the assault of light to everything else at the moment. Then she was back again, pulling his right arm out to the side, and he felt a cool dampness at the elbow. She spoke almost directly into his ear, very close. "This is going to sting." He would have laughed if he had had any resources to spare for it. She really thought that at the moment, he was going to register a needle stick? He never even felt the needle go in, but he did feel the delicious coolness spreading through his vein, along his arm, slowly washing across the rest of his body. The tidal waves of pain gradually receded to just a routine storm, and the world steadied a bit. Her fingers were along his neck again, checking his pulse. He cautiously opened his eyes and sat up, pulling away from her.

"Better?" Her eyes were anxious - and still filled with guilt.

He started to nod and thought better of it. His head was still aching even if at lesser volume, and he didn't want to give the world a chance to start spinning again. "Yes." Nowhere near good, but definitely better.

She picked up the syringe from the coffee table beside her and took it along with the trash can into the kitchen, where she had conscripted a jar last night to serve as sharps container. She was glad that Wilson, even agitated and upset, had thought to bring the morphine in addition to antibiotics in case it was needed. "I ought to start keeping a morphine stash myself for emergencies," she said as she came back into the living room a minute later.

He turned away. "Don't bother. Not for me. Soon as I think I can drive, I'll leave." He swallowed, trying to soothe his sore throat.

She opened the can of ginger ale she had picked up and put it in his hand. "Here. This will help." He hated accepting it, hated needing her help, but even with the morphine smoothing off the worst edges of both his leg and his head, he still felt lousy, head aching, stomach still offended, his throat and chest sore, his skin hot and prickly. As hangovers went, this one was going first class all the way.

He deserved it. He almost welcomed it. This was what his life was, after all, not the illusion of the date, all empty possibilities while ignoring the reality that Blythe already was invited to lunch with Wilson the very next day.

He reluctantly took a small sip of the ginger ale. It helped wash some of the taste of regurgitated bourbon back down, at least. His stomach rolled slightly, took a vote on the matter, and decided to stay put for the moment. He took another cautious sip.

"House." Her voice was quiet but insistent. "I did NOT know what Wilson was planning to do."

"Then how do you know what he did? I don't see Judas around here at the moment. He's probably down at the local papers, or even putting an open letter together for the New England Journal of Medicine."

"I called him last night, after I found you. I needed to get some more antibiotics - you've had a fever near 102 all night. He told me then. I didn't know before. I would have stopped him."

House looked up, dubious blue eyes meeting hers. "You mean in all the undoubtedly _dozens_ of conversations full of intimate details you two have had about me in the last few weeks, nobody ever once proposed telling my mother? It just spontaneously happened with zero discussion?"

It was her turn to look away. "He said a couple of times that he'd like to tell her. I knew he was angry. I thought he was just letting off steam; I never knew he actually planned to do it. I apologize. I should have known him better. There were clues, and I missed them. But I swear, House, I didn't know he'd set up that meeting."

When she looked back to him after the silence had lengthened a moment, he was looking down at the ginger ale, tilting the can slightly to one side and then the other, thinking. His eyes were still dull and bloodshot, and he still looked like he felt like crap, with lines of pain etched into his face. She hadn't wanted to give him too much morphine with the alcohol still filtering out of his system - two respiratory depressants plus possible early pneumonia anyway did not mix well - but she had been afraid he was going to stroke out without at least something. She could only imagine what it had felt like socking himself in his bad leg like that. He had literally been shaking with pain afterwards, not even responding to her anxious queries. She had been just a fraction too late to catch his left hand and stop the automatic reflex grab for the insulted muscle.

She'd been too late to catch several things lately, it seemed.

She let the stiff silence stretch out between them, hoping he would believe her, although she still thought she wasn't totally without fault here. No, she hadn't known details, but the oncologist had mentioned Blythe several times. She should have seen what Wilson was working up to.

"I don't know what to believe anymore," he said finally, softly. With or without her knowledge, the fact that a close friend could betray his confidence this badly rocked him, making solitude look that much more attractive. Maybe solitude was lonely at times, but at least it was safe.

She felt him retreating, not just from her but from everything, and wanted desperately to hold onto him except that she was pretty sure trying to hold on by force would only make things worse. Damn you, Wilson, she thought bitterly. She wanted to smack him again. "I hit him," she said suddenly, hoping that this would be additional ammunition for her claim that the lunch wasn't a conspiracy between them.

House did look back over at her then, and the ghost of a smile haunted his lips briefly. "You hit him?"

"Slapped him right across the face when he was coming in with the antibiotics last night. Rocked him clear back against the door." Her hands flexed in memory. "I should have hit him harder."

House picked up his left hand, looking at the slight dent in the end of the cast from his own blow to Wilson two weeks earlier, then let the hand fall back into his lap. What he wanted to do desperately right now was to be alone, but he didn't think he was safe to drive yet. His leg was down to a dull roar, but his head was still hurting, as was most of the rest of him. He closed his eyes for a minute and leaned his head back against the cushions.

"How are you feeling?"

His eyes snapped back open, still narrowed a bit against the light. "Just great."

"House." Her tone begged him for a straight answer. "You were sitting out in the cold rain for four hours last night, and you've been running a fever since I found you." She trailed off as she realized that she had lost him halfway in that sentence, his mind retreating to the puzzle-assembly room.

"Four hours. What made you come outside at midnight?"

"I was coming _home_ at midnight. I'd been out. I nearly walked into you." She saw the flash of speculation in his eyes. "I was at a fundraiser, House. For the hospital." Did he honestly think she would have been out on a date with someone else just 24 hours after him? The theme of betrayal was looming so large at the moment that it was casting its shadow across every other context. _Damn you, Wilson._ "I loved Friday night, House. It was perfect. I'm not looking for anyone else."

He dodged totally away from that, not wanting to discuss any serious subject at the moment, uncertain if he could accept assurance even though he wanted it. "Was it a nice fundraiser?"

She would have smiled at any other time. House the great truth-seeker trying to indulge in social small talk. "Where is your car?" she asked suddenly. "I didn't see it."

"One street over," he replied. "I didn't know you were gone. I didn't want to bother you."

No, he had just wanted to turn into a drunk icicle on her doorstep. She shuddered again at the further confirmation that he hadn't intended to be discovered and really had meant to spend the full night out there. In February, in the rain. She returned to the earlier topic. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I've got a hangover. Which is probably because I've got a hangover. It will pass." She stood up and walked over to check his temperature again - still about the same - and he pulled back in exasperation.

"Are you having any difficulty breathing?"

"No." He hesitated just a bit too long before that response.

"House, you've got to tell me if you start feeling worse. I've got you on antibiotics again, but your fever has hung on all night; if it goes over 103, I'm taking you into the hospital. You were totally wet by the time we dragged you in. I think you're trying to get either bronchitis or pneumonia."

"We?" He tilted his head.

"Not Wilson. He just came later with the antibiotics. My sitter helped me get you inside."

"I wasn't fighting you, was I?"

She shook her head. "I told you before, you are not going to hurt me physically, House. You were just passive, not helping us but not fighting."

He nodded, looking down again. "I didn't mean to bother you."

"House, you are NOT bothering me. I just wish I'd realized sooner what Wilson intended." She was still trying to decide whether last night had been a deliberate attempt at self harm or just apathy and distraction, but she knew she wouldn't get a straight answer on that one. She also wanted to ask him about New York, but that topic had pretty well been swept off the table by Wilson's actions, too. Give him space, she told herself. Give him space. Don't push him.

But she was _not_ going to totally leave him alone, much as he probably wanted it right now. Physically and mentally, she thought he needed somebody keeping an eye on him, and Wilson was totally out of the running for the moment.

He shifted cautiously, moving to the edge of the couch again and setting down his ginger ale on the coffee table. "Where's my cane?"

"Must be outside. I didn't see it, but it was dark. I can bring you something if you need it."

"A toilet?" he asked.

"Okay, maybe not. Unless . . ."

"NO! Bring me my cane." She opened the front door. It took her a while to find it, because it wasn't on her doorstep, rather most of the way across the front yard, as if he had flung it away from him while sitting there. She returned and offered it to him.

"It was clear across the front yard," she said, not quite asking but wondering.

A vague drunken memory swam back to him of throwing it away, of feeling so crippled that it actually seemed redundant. He studied the smooth wood between his fingers. "A dog must have gotten hold of it."

She let it slide. He took a moment to set himself, preparing for the effort, then levered himself up. Cuddy had been careful not to ask if he needed help, but she reached out to steady him as he swayed slightly. "Your leg?"

"Room isn't quite steady yet, either." He grimaced. "Remind me never to mix bourbon and scotch again."

She would rather remind him to drink if he must inside and not deliberately try to make himself sick by sitting outside in the freezing cold. Actually, she would rather have him turn to her instead of alcohol, but she understood why he hadn't been able to. Poor House. She had been at a party while he had been in total crisis. On the other hand, if she hadn't been at the party, she wouldn't have found him as she came home.

He took a tentative step, wincing and wobbling. To hell with trying not to push. She installed herself under his arm firmly. "Lean on me. It will get better as the alcohol wears off." Slowly they limped to the bathroom, and he pulled away from her then.

"Turn your back."

She had seen all of him Friday night, but she understood that he already felt naked right now anyway. He couldn't face literally baring himself in front of anyone at the moment. She turned away while he peed. "Do you want to go in the bedroom?"

He shook his head and then swayed again as the movement made him dizzy. "Couch is fine." The bedroom would be a reminder of Friday night, and they were firmly under the grip of Saturday night instead.

She was disappointed but accepted it. He would have been more comfortable in her room. They made their way back to the couch, and he stretched out along it again, carefully bringing his leg up onto the extra pillow. She took another set of vitals. The fever was still right where it had been, no higher but refusing to break. "In another few hours, I'll give you another injection of antibiotics. Okay? Maybe you can keep down some Vicodin by then, too. If not, I'll give you a little more morphine, just enough to take the edge off."

He sighed, closing his eyes and wishing that the world would leave him alone and realize that he felt too lousy to put up proper resistance at the moment. "Soon as I can drive, I'll get out of the way," he repeated.

"You aren't in the way, and speaking as both your physician and the person who has possession of your car keys at the moment, I don't think you're anywhere near safe to drive."

He sighed again. Cuddy had him hostage for the moment, apparently. Where was Wilson? Where was his mother? He didn't care, as long as it was someplace he was not, but how long would they stay away? He knew it wouldn't last, that he couldn't go the rest of his life without talking to either of them, although the thought was tempting. He put his good hand up to cover his closed eyes, further blocking everything out. He needed to think, but he felt too tired and achy at the moment, and his thought processes seemed to be on strike, refusing to work at their usual speed. Just a hangover, he told himself. It would get better. Maybe Cuddy at least wouldn't insist on solving all crises immediately and would just leave him alone until he was capable of leaving.

Rachel chose that moment to wake up, and Cuddy went back to get her. By the time she changed her daughter, heated a bottle, and sat down in the recliner to give it to her, House had fallen asleep. She was careful to be quiet, to try to keep the baby quiet. He needed all the rest he could get at the moment to get on top of both his hangover and whatever infection he was battling.

It was almost two hours later, right on schedule, that he fell into a nightmare, and Cuddy felt like the clock had been rewound, like they were back to the beginning two and a half weeks ago.

Except that two and a half weeks ago had only been the beginning for her. For House, it had been his lifetime.


	9. Chapter 9

Thanks for all the reviews. More as I can - could be tonight, could be a few days; just depends on how the schedule plays out. We're still on the big hill. Hands up, and everybody scream!

(H/C)

Wilson thought he was going to go crazy.

It had taken a great deal of effort on his part to keep Blythe from heading straight out the door when he arrived back at House's apartment in the small hours of Sunday morning after leaving Cuddy's. He told her simply that House had been found but was totally drunk and would need to sleep it off, that a friend was taking care of him. Unfortunately, even without identifying information provided, House's short resume of friends made his location fairly easy to figure out. Blythe was all set to head over and nurse her son herself, and it took every bit of convincing and pleading that Wilson had to keep her in the apartment instead. Finally agreeing to push off further conversations with her son until he was at least sober, Blythe instead spent the sleepless remainder of Saturday night plus all day Sunday in self-recrimination, listing off all of the things she now wondered about as possible clues that she had missed. Her list of that, extending over many years of House's childhood, was so much larger and more obvious cumulatively than Wilson's own that he couldn't believe Blythe hadn't put it all together decades ago. The list of injuries alone, even allowing for its incompleteness (since she had thought that House had only broken one toe and presumably had missed other things as well), was staggering in total. Wilson wanted to shake her, to gag her just to make her shut up, to leave and just let her and her conscience continue their conversation alone, and instead, he found himself forced to play father confessor as Blythe shrived herself in front of him for countless hours, desperately seeking a penance and absolution that he wouldn't have given her even if he'd had any idea what might be a satisfactory one.

His own conscience, of course, was gnawing away at him just as annoyingly privately as Blythe was aloud. His total misreading of the situation and of Blythe's reaction staggered him, and for the first time, Wilson honestly looked at several of his past decisions made "for House's own good" and wondered if they not only had backfired but if they had been totally wrong from the git-go. The detox bet, which had been his idea to prove to House that he was an addict. Lying to House about the Addison's patient. Refusing to believe his friend's increasing pain was not largely psychosomatic. Making the deal with Tritter. Deciding to put House on antidepressants without his knowledge. Plus, of course, the massive error of his and Cuddy's idea, but mostly his, for getting House to the funeral. Had his perceptions about what his friend needed been this totally wrong throughout their friendship?

The string of errors would have been impressive even if they had involved his own life, but to stage manage someone else's to that extent because he thought he knew better than that person what was needed . . . he wondered why House hadn't broken off the friendship years ago. He wondered if he would ever be able to repair their relationship now. Like Blythe, he just wanted to "make it right," and seeing the impossibility of her task made him seriously question the possibility of his. Furthermore, he knew that he had done a lot of damage in the overall scheme of things, not just between the two of them. House had honestly been starting to open up, agreeing to therapy, beginning to deal with things, and Wilson was afraid he had derailed the entire train, not merely the car that carried their friendship.

Blythe fluttered away in the background like an agitated bird. "And then there was the time he came back from camping with a burn across his wrist. He said a piece of wood had snapped and thrown off an ember, but it was awfully large for that. What if that was . . ."

"BLYTHE." Wilson's tone was commanding enough to stop her momentarily, mid guilt. "Listen, you've been up for over 36 hours now nonstop, both of us have, and it's been a tough 36 hours. Neither one of us has had anything to eat today. I think for his sake, we need to take care of ourselves right now so we'll be better able to relate to him later. Why don't I cook us something to eat, and then let's try to get some sleep."

Blythe stared at him. "I couldn't possibly sleep, James."

"He has sleeping pills in his bedroom. I'm a doctor, I'd be glad to give you some of them." In fact, he'd be glad to knock her out completely just to achieve the resultant silence, but he really did think they both needed some rest and food.

Blythe sighed and wrung her hands again. He was amazed she hadn't twisted them off by now. "Sleeping pills. He can't even sleep without sleeping pills. Oh, Greg, I should have known . . . "

"Things are a lot worse since he fell. He said the nightmares aren't usually nearly this frequent. But really, Blythe, for his sake, don't you think you'd do better talking to him if you haven't been up for 48 hours straight first?"

She sighed again. "I suppose. . . I hate to just go to bed and eat and do normal things, though, while he's going through all this."

"Come on." Wilson headed into the kitchen and started cooking. "We both need some food before we get hypoglycemic, and then we both need some rest. We aren't going to help him out by making ourselves collapse."

She followed him. "I guess that makes sense, but it still seems too easy for us. I have to tell him how sorry I am. I've got to get him to listen to me."

Wilson abruptly recalled how many times in that awful confrontation with House she had used that phrase. "Um, Blythe, it isn't a good idea to tell him you're sorry."

"Why on earth not? I am. Why shouldn't I say it?"

He hated to tell her, anticipating another flood of remorse, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized that the repeated words probably had contributed to House's flashback earlier, fastening him thoroughly in that memory before Blythe had grabbed him, providing the last straw. "Don't use the word sorry. Tell him you apologize, but never use the word sorry." He wanted to leave it there, but she refused to accept it, of course. "When he was 8, when his father pushed him down the stairs and broke his arm, he told him he was sorry first - as a joke, to prove that people say they are sorry without ever being sincere."

Blythe's eyes widened with a fresh wave of horror. "My God, how could I have missed all of this?"

Wilson had no idea. It was painfully obvious. "When he . . . reacted earlier, right before he left, I think he must have been having a flashback to the stairs. That particular phrase, over and over, could have pushed him to it, and then when you grabbed him, he probably thought you were his father. That's why he was fighting."

"Oh, Greg." It was like a worn-out record by now, setting Wilson's teeth on edge. "Nightmares, flashbacks . . . he really is having trouble, isn't he?"

Wilson assaulted a tomato to take out some diverted frustration. "YES. That's why you HAVE to go slowly on this. If you just throw yourself at him like the other night, I guarantee he'll shut down at best, and at worst, he'll get lost in his memories or have a panic attack. If you want to talk to him, Blythe, you're going to have to go at it gently and not push. It's the only thing that's working right now." With Cuddy, at least. Wilson, on the other hand, was just as much an offender of impetuosity as Blythe.

For the first time, he could see that she was starting to re-evaluate her strategy. Maybe some good was finally coming out of all his advice to her, at least. She'd never seemed to actually hear him and process it before. "Oh, Greg," she said again. "I'll try to be a little less abrupt. But I have to tell him I didn't know." Wilson shot up mental well-wishes for Cuddy, who was probably engaged about now in that very same position.

The only difference was, Cuddy truly was innocent at the moment. He hoped House would realize that. He and Blythe, on the other hand, had a long list of sins to account for, and ignorance was a pitiful excuse.

Blythe had another complete list of possible missed clues while they were eating, such things as how Greg always had eaten more and been more relaxed when they were having meals alone but had almost seemed to choke things down with no appetite when John was there and how almost every time he and John had ever been alone together for a few days, he seemed to have lost weight. Wilson swallowed his anger along with his food and just let her prattle on, but afterward, he put every ounce of persuasion he had into convincing her to take some of House's sleeping pills. For Wilson's health as well as Blythe's, she had to simply shut up and stop for a while.

Finally, there was silence. Wilson sat on House's couch in House's apartment and replayed the last two days, wondering again how he had possibly messed it up so badly. He got up to go check on Blythe, who was out solidly under the zolpidem. He debating taking some himself, needing something to shut his mind off as much as she had, but after a bit of thought, he went back to the couch and settled down instead with a bottle of House's bourbon. He didn't deserve the ease of pills to sleep. He deserved the full bitter draught of his own errors. He didn't even like bourbon, but he welcomed the fire going down. It was like tasting just a bit of what his friend had had to deal with throughout life, and as Wilson's progressively blurred thoughts carried him away, he hoped that House at least was finding some comfort under Cuddy's care.

(H/C)

Cuddy's hands were on him, one on his arm, the other rubbing circles along his back. He had jerked straight to sitting upright out of sleep, and his leg, of course, immediately yelped. House rubbed desperately at the muscle. Cuddy finally grew tired of waiting for him to ask for help, and she reached for it herself, going slowly enough to allow for tacit permission or refusal. He sighed in defeat and sat back, and she carefully worked the spasm out after several minutes of effort. She looked back up at his face when the cramp had finally unknotted under her fingers. House was leaning back, eyes closed, but she knew he wasn't asleep. "Does that feel better now?"

"Yes. Thanks." The words were clipped, and his eyes didn't open. "What time is it?"

She looked at her watch. "5:00. You'd been asleep almost two hours. That's strange, how the nightmares are on such a schedule. It's always just under two hours. Almost like clockwork." The quick expression that flashed across his face told her two things: First, that House didn't think it was odd at all that his nightmares at their worst points were on a precise 2-hour schedule, and second, that he had no intention of explaining it to her at the moment. She obligingly backed off, tossing another mental slap at Wilson. "Do you think you could keep down some Vicodin, or do you want some morphine? How's your stomach?"

He didn't feel like throwing up on sitting upright this time, which was at least an improvement. "A little better. Hangover's slowly improving. Let's try the Vicodin."

She fished out the bottle and handed it to him, picking up the half-empty can of ginger ale on the coffee table and passing it over, too. "You feel like trying to eat something? You haven't had anything all day. Probably not since lunch yesterday."

He sighed, debating. He didn't, really, but he knew that she wouldn't leave him alone for the night until he had eaten at least something, and he also needed his meds, some of which couldn't be taken without food. "Not sure. Maybe."

She reached up to touch his forehead again and frowned. "I wish this fever would go down. How are you feeling?"

Sore throat, slightly tight chest, and generalized myalgias. The hangover was enough better now that he was able to sort out what wasn't due to it. "A little achy. Not too bad."

Right. Cuddy immediately multiplied by five. "Any trouble breathing?"

"I'm _fine_, Cuddy. Probably just picked up a bit of a cold, that's all."

Definitely hit a nerve there. She only hoped he'd give up stubbornness and tell her if the breathing really started worsening. "Okay. I'll go see what I've got in the kitchen that would go down easy." She started that way, then stopped. She'd meant to make a phone call quietly from the kitchen, but she suddenly realized that she was pulling a Wilson again, shutting off House's own vote. She'd give him as much control as he could have right now. "House, we've got a problem."

Just a flash of his old snark came through there. "Really? Thanks for telling me; I hadn't noticed."

"I've got morphine here, plus the antibiotics Wilson brought. All of your pain meds. But the zolpidem is at your place. There's the morphine, but I'd rather not use a knock-out dose of it when your fever is this high and you might be developing a respiratory infection."

Fresh out of a nightmare, he couldn't deny the need for a sleeping aid. He sighed. "Are _they_ there?"

"Yes. Wilson is under strict orders to keep her occupied and stay away from you."

"Thank you," he said softly.

"I don't want to call him again, not even for a hand-off out in the street; she'd probably come, too. He managed to sneak away last night without telling her where he was going, but I doubt she'd buy it twice."

He shook his head. "I don't want either one of them over here."

"Okay, I was thinking of calling someone at the hospital to bring me some more. You're going to need it tonight. You need some rest." He looked away from her, fingers flexing in thought as he considered other options, then reluctantly nodded. "Who do you think is the least curious candidate for delivery person at the hospital?"

He took a moment to think it over, and she waited, letting him know that this was totally his vote, his choice. "Chase," he said finally. "Don't tell him. . ." He trailed off.

"I won't tell him anything, and he can wonder privately. I'll meet him at the door; he doesn't even have to see you." He nodded. "Okay, I'll call him and rustle up something to eat." She picked up Rachel, who was in her carrier, and took her along to the kitchen. Soup, she decided, surveying the options. House would probably be critical of it - at least she hoped he would, in some semblance of his usual spirit - but she hadn't missed the way it seemed to be painful for him to swallow. She'd bet he had a sore throat, as well as some difficulty breathing.

The next two hours were a study in awkwardness. House managed to eat most of a bowl of soup and let her help him to the bathroom again, but he clearly wasn't going to talk about things. She let it alone, with the only thing she insisted on being that he receive another injection of antibiotics. She played with Rachel, and he sat there like a silent ghost haunting her living room. She was certain that if he had been feeling well, he would have already been gone. When he drifted back off to sleep, she timed it, woke him up well before two hours, and gave him the sleeping pill, which Chase had handed over at the front door with no more than a quirk of an Australian eyebrow.

House fell back into sleep, sound if medicated sleep, and Cuddy put Rachel down and settled in for her second night in the recliner, with her travel alarm clock stuffed under her pillow to mute it. She was getting pretty tired herself, but she still woke up every hour, checking on him. No change at 11:00. No change at 12:00. No change at 1:00.

He woke her up at 1:45, coughing in his sleep, still out but restless now, and the thermometer registered 102.8.


	10. Chapter 10

Cuddy surveyed her medicine cabinet, debating over cough syrup. She took it out finally, deciding she wouldn't give it to him until she thought he was at least partially aware and oriented. Between the spiking fever and the fact that he was still under the influence of sleeping pills, she wasn't sure how much success she'd have there. The last thing he needed was to get choked over swallowing something at the moment. She also grabbed a washcloth and filled a bowl with cool water. No ice - she wouldn't make that mistake again.

She returned to the living room and set her supplies down on the coffee table, then knelt beside him and checked his temperature again, worriedly reminding herself that he also had both acetaminophen and ibuprofen in his system at the moment. "Now listen, House," she told him firmly, "you are one very short step away from getting an ambulance ride back to the hospital. So if you don't want to be around a whole lot of people, you'd better start getting better pronto." He twisted away from her touch, muttering something unintelligible. She wet the washcloth in the bowl, then carefully reached for him, speaking all the while. "This is just cool water, okay? It will help bring the fever down - I hope. I won't use ice, but I need to do something for you. All right, here it is." She wiped the sweat off his face and put the cloth as a cold compress across his forehead. He tightened up, retreating, but he didn't lash out.

"No," he mumbled.

"It's okay, House. Just water. I'm trying to help you. If we can't get on top of this fever pretty quickly, you're going back to the hospital." She stroked his damp hair soothingly, something she couldn't imagine John having ever done, hoping the difference would register somewhere through the fog of medicated fever in his mind.

"Didn't . . . tell."

"Easy, House. It's just me." She grabbed his good hand with her free one and held it.

"Didn't mean to tell. I'm sorry." He was getting more agitated, but he still wasn't actually fighting her.

Cuddy sighed. "You didn't do anything wrong, House. It's okay." He starting coughing again, and the cloth fell away. She dunked it back in the bowl for a minute and retrieved her stethoscope, carefully listening to his chest, being careful to warm up the metal first. His breath sounds were decreased somewhat in the bases, but they were equal, and he still had plenty of lung volume. He was on a pretty high-powered antibiotic, several IV injections so far, that was normally quite effective against most pneumonias; she hoped he was just having a final battle with the bug before it surrendered and not that he was fighting some resistant strain. Still, her cell phone was on the coffee table, and she was quite prepared to call 911 if things didn't turn around very quickly.

She picked up the cloth again, wrung it out, and wiped off his face and neck. "It's all right, House. This is just cold water to help cool you off a little and bring the fever down. It's not ice."

He pulled away from the cool dampness of the cloth. "Sorry," he muttered again. "Don't hurt . . ."

Cuddy blinked back tears, storing them for later. "House, I'm not your father. You're at my place, and you're sick. It's okay."

". . . her." Cuddy hesitated, wondering if the two parts of that delirious sentence fit together or not. While she was still wondering, he said it again. "Don't hurt her. I didn't mean to tell."

_Her? _Could he be referring to his mother? But everything she'd seen and heard from Blythe pointed to absolute obliviousness, even alternate reality, but not to fear on her own behalf of her husband. Cuddy had seen the two of them together. Awkwardness of all sorts between John and House, but Blythe had never seemed afraid or inhibited with him.

"House, it's all right," she repeated. "I know you didn't tell. Nobody's going to hurt her."

"No. Can't tell. I'm sorry. Don't kill her."

_Kill her?_ Cuddy couldn't help listening to this in growing horror. House had said himself that Blythe never knew, that John apparently had done nothing to her. _But had the threat been John's way of ensuring his son's silence? Something that he knew years later - when not delirious - was inapplicable but which had been ingrained into the frightened, lost child back then?_

She soaked the cloth again and put it back against his forehead, taking a minute first to get a quick assessment on his fever again. No lower but at least it seemed to have stopped climbing. He flinched at the cool touch, and she picked up his hand again, squeezing it, hoping that would reach him.

"Everybody knows. But I didn't tell her. I'm sorry."

She mentally pummeled Wilson a few more times. No doubt what the main theme of his subconscious thoughts was at the moment. "House, everybody doesn't know. Only a few people, and you didn't tell her." She hesitated, then was unable to resist pushing on, just a little bit. "I know you didn't tell her. It's okay. But what happens if you do tell her?"

"He'll kill her," he said, as if reciting something by rote that had been drilled into him as firmly as the multiplication tables. "If anybody knows, he'll kill her and make me watch. It's my fault."

Cuddy dropped his hand, her own fingers suddenly losing power, and he jumped slightly as it fell back against the cushions. "I didn't tell." His voice was getting more frantic now.

She hit full retreat herself. She couldn't ask him more. Sharing with her should be his conscious choice, not involuntary under opportunistic interrogation. But Wilson had been displaced by John as her primary mental target at the moment, and her weapon of choice was no longer a slap. She picked up House's hand again. "It's okay. She's safe. You kept her safe. I know you didn't tell."

He was starting to shiver more, and she wrapped the blanket more tightly around him. "I didn't tell," he mumbled again.

"I know. You never told. It's okay, House. And House, he is dead."

He stilled a bit then. Amazing how his thinking look could be present, even when his eyes were still glazed and clearly unfocused. "He's dead?"

"Yes. He's dead. He'll never hurt you - or her - now. He's dead, House."

Tears welled up in the blue eyes and spilled over, tears not of grief but of relief. "So it's over?"

"Yes. It's over. You kept her safe. Nothing's going to happen to either one of you now." She wiped the tears away, then resoaked the cloth and put it back across his forehead. He pulled back, shivering.

"Cold," he mumbled.

"You've got a fever. You're going to be okay, though. Everything's going to be okay." She hoped. She picked up the thermometer from the coffee table and took another official reading. 102.5. It was going down. She gave his hand a squeeze and stood up. "I'm going to go get another blanket, okay? I'll be back in a minute." She went into the bedroom for one, popping in for a quick look at Rachel, who thankfully was sleeping soundly tonight. She returned to the living room and added the additional blanket on top of him, tucking it in securely. He was visibly shivering now. He had thrown off the washcloth during her absence, which didn't surprise her, and she soaked it again and put it back across his forehead. He was moving restlessly, mumbling unintelligibly again, but he settled down somewhat as she picked up his hand, and his eyes closed again. She only wished he'd let himself draw comfort from her while he was fully oriented.

She lost track of time as she sat there, only knowing it was long enough for her body to be complaining about kneeling on the floor, for her hand to be stiff from hanging on tightly to his, but it didn't matter. The cold compresses were working. That was all that was important now. He was still shivering, and after the fever had dropped below 102, she finally halfway crawled onto the couch with him, pulling him against her. He slowly relaxed, pressing against her, the tremors ceasing, and the next time she took the cloth away to refresh it, she found his eyes about half open when she turned back. They were still a bit glazed and unfocused, but they didn't seem to be seeing things that were no longer there anymore.

"Cuddy?"

"Yes. It's okay, House. Your fever spiked, but it's going down now." She smoothed the cloth out across his forehead, then scrambled stiffly up. "I'll be back in a minute." She got a glass of water in the kitchen, as well as a kitchen spoon, then returned to the couch. His eyes had fallen shut again. "House?" She slipped one hand behind his head, raising it. "Can you drink a little of this for me?" He drank without opening his eyes, and when he pulled away, she set down the glass and picked up the cough syrup, measuring out a spoonful. "Here. Open your mouth, okay?" He did but pulled away quickly, grimacing, reacting to the sharp taste. She had to grin to herself; in that moment, he looked exactly like any kid. "Just guaifenesin for the cough. I know it tastes sharp." She let his head fall back onto the pillow. She took his temperature one more time, then carefully pulled the blankets up under his chin. She would have been glad to climb back onto the couch with him, but she wasn't sure he'd appreciate waking up in that position in the morning as things stood currently. She stayed by the couch for another 30 minutes, and when she had finally convinced herself he was stable, she retreated to the recliner, feeling absolutely exhausted. Still, she set the alarm clock carefully for another hour, then curled up under her own blanket and fell quickly into sleep.


	11. Chapter 11

"James?"

Wilson groaned and burrowed deeper into the back of the couch. The annoying hands shaking his shoulder would not go away, however. "James? Are you okay?" Wait a minute, what was someone unexpected doing in his apartment?

He opened his eyes slowly. He wasn't in his apartment. He was on House's couch, and Blythe was bending over him, looking concerned. Everything came flooding back to him in a rush that made his already throbbing head double in size. Oh, hell, the world hadn't floated away downstream on bourbon after all.

"Are you okay?" Blythe repeated.

Wilson swallowed, trying to moisten his mouth, which tasted like the bottom of a bird cage. "Um, I think so. What time is it?"

"It's 7:30."

Wilson sat up stiffly. Monday morning. He had patients, hospital duties, appointments - and a hell of a problem on the side.

That problem stood by the couch, and her eyes tracked from him to the empty bottle by the couch and back again. "Would you like some toast and orange juice?"

"Yes. Thanks." He didn't want to eat anything, but it probably would help. He needed a shower, too. He had to get functional; this day wasn't going to wait too long for him.

"Okay, I'll go make breakfast," Blythe said cheerfully. "Then you can get to work, and I'll go over to Lisa's and talk things out with Greg. He should be sobered up by now."

Wilson came straight up off the couch as she turned away, and the construction crew in his head formed a picket line and waved placards to protest the movement. He ignored it. Looked like this day wasn't going to give him a chance to get functional before it fell apart. "Blythe, I don't think that's a good idea."

She turned back to face him, the expression one that he recognized from his own childhood. This was Mother on a Mission. "I heard what you said yesterday, and I'll try to go gently, but I AM going to talk things out with my son." Her tone allowed no argument.

Wilson scrambled for his cell phone. "Let me call over there and see how he's feeling first. Go ahead and make breakfast." She eyed him suspiciously and then turned for the kitchen with a determined step, and Wilson dialed urgently, his own hangover temporarily forgotten.

(H/C)

"Hello?" Cuddy answered the phone, feeling definitely put through the ringer herself. She hadn't had more than an hour consecutively of sleep for two nights, and last night's interval had been nerve-wracking both physically and mentally.

"How are things going?" Wilson asked tentatively.

Cuddy sighed. She was just starting breakfast herself, and House was holding Rachel on the couch at the moment and giving her a bottle. "Kind of had a rough night. His fever spiked in the middle of the night. It hit 103 even with acetaminophen and ibuprofen both in him. I was up for a while until it finally broke. He's better but still coughing some this morning, and I'm calling both of us in to work. We both need some rest today. The nanny is going to take Rachel to her place." Cuddy was in the kitchen doorway now, and she saw House's head tilt, taking all of this in. Of course, she'd already told him that he had been sick during the night and that he absolutely did not need to go to work today, nor did she, but she had deliberately left off as many details as she could.

Wilson was immediately sidetracked into worry for his friend physically, as well as for Cuddy dealing with all this alone. "Is he still febrile this morning? Did he get delirious? Did you have any problems with him?"

"Just low grade, yes, and no," Cuddy replied shortly.

"Did he say anything new while he was out of it?"

Cuddy's voice could have frozen fire. "Wilson, it's NONE of your business. Or anybody else's except his." House looked up at her with a quick flash of gratitude in his eyes before looking back down at Rachel.

Wilson flinched. "Sorry. I mean, I apologize. I mean . . . " He trailed off. "Blythe wants to come over."

"No." Cuddy's refusal could not have been more curt.

Wilson's voice dropped. "I'm not sure how much longer I can keep her away. She's getting that mother expression. I think she's going to run straight over me on the way out before long."

Cuddy sighed. Wilson versus a determined mother really was an unequal contest. She was still mad at him, but his assessment was probably accurate. "She's pretty close, I take it?"

"Cooking breakfast."

"Let me talk to her." There was a pause, then Blythe's worried tones.

"Lisa? How is Greg doing?"

"Not too good at the moment."

"But the alcohol should have worn off by now."

"Blythe, he got quite wet and chilled the other night, and he's been fighting off pneumonia since. Last night, his fever spiked, and I was right on the edge of calling for an ambulance. It's down significantly this morning, but he is not well, and he needs to rest."

"Oh, Greg. I ought to be helping you take care of him."

"Blythe, think about it for a minute. I know you want to run straight over here, and I understand. I finally have a child myself after years of trying, and if she was sick, I'd be absolutely beside myself. But he's getting better, he is under the direct supervision of a doctor, and most important, he needs to rest right now, and I don't think he would rest today with you around. You two have too much to talk over and deal with. If you were over here, his energies wouldn't be focused on getting better, and that's what he needs to focus on right now. Please, Blythe, give him a chance to get well first physically. Give it at least another day. You need to both be at your best when you talk about things."

Blythe hesitated. "We don't have to talk about it today. I could just be there for him."

"Do you really think that would work? You know him, Blythe." Not half as well as she should, but even half would show her the holes in that argument.

She sighed. "Probably not. He never could just leave things alone." Cuddy clenched her teeth, remembering last night's revelation of what had kept House silent through childhood. "He is getting better though?"

"Yes, he's getting better. His fever is down to just low grade this morning. But he had a very rough night last night, and I think he just needs to rest all day today."

Blythe sighed again. "Could I talk to him now for a minute? I'll try not to say anything to upset him."

"He's asleep right now, Blythe." Cuddy lied without a qualm, and House, on the couch, immediately let his head fall back and his eyes shut. "I don't want to disturb him. Like I said, it was a bad night."

There was a pause for a minute, then Blythe said, "I suppose things can wait until tomorrow. I'm not going anywhere. But call me if he starts getting any worse and keep me updated, okay?"

"I will."

"And thank you, Lisa, for taking care of him so well."

Cuddy smiled. "Believe me, he's not a problem at all. It's my pleasure to take care of him." That was the truth but was said purely for House's benefit. He was still playing dead on the couch, but she saw his eyelids twitch.

"James wants to talk to you again."

There was a silence and footsteps, as Wilson apparently retreated from House's kitchen back to the living room. His voice when it came was quiet but impressed. "Wow! How did you do that?"

"It's a mother thing. You wouldn't understand. She should be safe on the shelf for today, and you can head on into work."

Wilson groaned. "I've got a hangover myself this morning."

"Too bad. Deal with it."

He sighed. "I guess he probably doesn't want to talk to me either."

"Good guess."

"Call me if anything changes or if you need anything."

"I will," she said. He hung up, and Cuddy walked over to the couch. "Your mother is on hold for another day."

House opened his eyes. "How long do you think this will work?"

"Not forever, I'm afraid. Believe me, I wish it would." Rachel had just finished her bottle, and Cuddy picked her up and put her upright against House's shoulder. Changing positions with her was awkward for him with the cast. "I need to get back in the kitchen and get breakfast going."

"What did you tell the hospital?"

"I called in that I had a bug, and I sent a text from your phone to your team just saying you were sick. Two totally separate transactions; no reason for the hospital to put them together." She knew that he was hypersensitive at the moment on anybody else knowing details about him, no matter what the subject. She headed back into the kitchen.

The nanny showed up just as Cuddy was getting breakfast on the table, and she handed Rachel and her bag off at the door, blocking the view of her living room, although the sitter did try to surreptitiously peer around. "Thanks for taking her. I'm just not quite feeling up to par today, think I'll spend the day resting."

"Any time, Dr. Cuddy."

Cuddy turned back to House with a forced smile as the door closed. "At least one problem is dealt with for the day."

His eyes were down, and he didn't respond to the attempt at humor. "I didn't mean to bother you."

Sigh. "That's not what I meant, House. Just trying to make a joke. You aren't bothering me, and I really don't care what she thinks. Come on, breakfast is ready." She watched him get up and move to the table. His leg was clearly bothering him much more than usual, but at least he didn't look like he was about to lose his balance anymore.

He sat down at the table. "You really do need to rest today," he told her. "You look tired." Not a strong enough word. She looked nearly dead on her feet.

"I intend to. Rest will help both of us, and with your mother and Wilson out of the way and Rachel gone, today can just be one long nap. Or several shorter naps," she edited.

He flinched. "You ought to move to the bedroom."

"Not unless you do," she insisted. "Sleeping in the recliner beats sleeping on the couch with a bad leg."

"I'd just wake you up."

She shook her head. "I thought about that. Either we could use some more sleeping pills, which I'd rather not do - it's not meant to be round the clock, and you need to eat lunch, after all - or I'll just set the alarm clock for every hour and a half and wake you up." She studied his expression as he did a differential on his plate. She'd considered putting this topic off until after the meal, but he had brought it up himself, and he was so generally on edge right now anyway that she really didn't think the particular discussion over the table would make that much difference. Nothing about him looked at ease. "Would that work? If it never approached two hours?"

He stared at his fork. "Probably. Not much rest for you, though."

"Oh, I'm getting used to the sleeping in shorter stretches. It comes with having a baby. I can fall asleep a lot faster than I used to." She finished her breakfast and frowned at his mostly full plate. "You need to eat more."

"I'm just not hungry."

"I know, but remember, you're taking some pretty high-dose NSAIDs. I let it slide last night with the soup and tea, but you really need a full meal with those."

"I'm a doctor, too, you know," he snapped, then looked down, sheepish. She was only trying to help, and he knew it.

"Try to eat a little more, at least." She got up and took her own plate to the sink, giving him a little symbolic space, then headed down the hall. "I'll toss your clothes from Saturday night that I've got here into the washer, and later on tonight, you can take a hot bath, and they'll be ready for you."

When she returned a few minutes later, he had managed a few more bites but still was only halfway done. "At least finish the juice," she asked, and he picked up the glass and drained it, then hobbled back down the hall to the bathroom without a word.

Cuddy gathered her alarm clock, the cough syrup, the bottle of injectable antibiotics, and a syringe and headed on to the bedroom, and he joined her after a few minutes, stiffly lying down on the other side of the bed and bringing his leg up. She drew up the injection and moved around to his side. "I do have a full oral course of antibiotics, too, but I'd rather keep you on IV for a few more doses. You were pretty sick last night." She rested her hand across his forehead, gauging. The fever was much lower, just enough now to tell that he barely had one.

"I didn't give you any trouble last night, did I?" he asked anxiously.

"No," she assured him. "I was mainly just worried about getting the fever down. You aren't going to hurt me, House."

"You didn't use ice, did you?"

"No. Trying that once was enough. I was using cold water compresses, and it worked." She saw his eyes flicker away to the blankets, speculating, and she filled in at least part of the blank. He needed more information for reassurance. "You didn't like it. You reacted every single time that cold cloth touched you, but you were only trying to get away from it. You never tried to hurt me." She left anything he'd said out of it entirely. He clearly didn't remember, and he had enough broken privacy at the moment to deal with.

He sighed and held out his arm, silently consenting to the injection. She gave it to him, then measured out more of the cough syrup, and he grimaced. "Come on, House. You're still coughing some." He took it reluctantly, and she moved around the bed, settling down next to him, and set the alarm clock for an hour and a half.

So much distance between them, physically and psychologically. So many wedges driven between everything. She remembered the brief paradise of Friday night, but she didn't attempt to move closer. He would have to close the distance on his own. He lay there almost stiffly, as if afraid any movement would bother her, but they were both too tired to lie awake long.

(H/C)

Monday was a red-letter day on the PPTH grapevine. House calling - or rather texting - in sick was unusual; for all his complaining, he hated to miss work. Cuddy calling in sick was even more unusual. But rumors of the apocalypse started flying when Wilson showed up late, obviously hungover, and wearing an unironed shirt.

(H/C)

The system seemed to work fairly well. The alarm clock dutifully woke them up every hour and a half, never giving House a chance to approach whatever it was that his mind had locked into the time table at almost two hours. They spoke very little through the day, both of them badly needing the rest they were getting. Cuddy fixed lunch about 12:30, and then they went back to bed on their separate sides.

Cuddy woke up with a jolt at 4:45. She scrambled for the alarm clock, wondering why it hadn't gone off at 4:00 as set, wondering why House hadn't had a nightmare by now, and only then realizing through her sleep-soaked brain that the other side of the bed was empty.

"House?" She sat up and listened. The house was absolutely still. She looked at the alarm clock again, and a chill went through her as she realized that it had been switched off. "House!" She quickly got up and searched.

The puzzle hardly required a diagnostician to put together. His clean clothes were gone from her laundry room, his car keys were gone from her purse, and all of the meds including the antibiotics and cough syrup had disappeared. All but one prescription, that is. The bottle of morphine was set firmly in the middle of her table, almost like a note left there for her, and she had no trouble reading it. He was gone, but he wanted her to know that he would take the antibiotics and that he did not intend to overdose or try a suicide attempt, whether passive or active. If the bottle had been a note, it would have said, "Don't worry."

Cuddy ground her teeth together. She had no idea where she might start looking; he knew that Blythe was in his apartment, and he certainly wouldn't head to Wilson's. There was the hospital, but that was too obvious. He might show up to work tomorrow - she hoped he would - but if he wanted space, he wouldn't go tonight to the one place where everyone would look for him once the alarm went out. Cuddy stood there helplessly, forced to conclude that for the moment, there was nothing she could do but respect his unspoken request. But mentally and physically, she knew that he was more fragile right now than he wanted to believe he was. "Please," she implored him, "don't do anything stupid."


	12. Chapter 12

Cuddy entered PPTH the next morning, the determined rhythm of her heels sounding a message to the world. Here came a woman on a mission, and nobody had better stand between her and what she wanted. She walked straight past the reception desk, not even stopping to pick up her messages, and headed straight for the fourth floor.

The team was sitting around the glass table, doing either case studies or crosswords depending on personality. The adjacent office was dark and unoccupied. "Have any of you seen House?" Cuddy demanded urgently.

"He texted in about 30 minutes ago. Said he still was sick and wouldn't be in," Foreman supplied.

Cuddy sighed. Her multiple efforts to call had only resulted in the discovery that his cell phone was switched off. _Where are you? How are you?_

"Are you feeling better, Dr. Cuddy?" Kutner asked brightly.

"Am I . . .what?"

"Word was you had a virus yesterday."

"Right. Yes, I'm feeling much better. Just one of those 24-hour bugs." She spun on her heel and exited the conference room, heading down the hall to Oncology.

Wilson had just finished taking off his coat when Cuddy blew into the office like a tropical storm, and he turned straight into another slap right across his face. "Um, good morning?"

"You've done it now." She was mad, with the anger in her eyes freshly rewarmed.

"What? I haven't done anything since Saturday, other than go half crazy listening to his mother. The woman wins the Oblivion of the Year Award. How is he this morning?"

"I don't know."

Wilson frowned. "Um, where is he this morning?"

"Again, I don't know."

"You _lost _him?"

Cuddy paced the small office. "He left at some point yesterday afternoon, while I was asleep. Took his things and his car and vanished. Nobody has seen him since."

Wilson sank slowly into his desk chair. "He just _left?"_ She nodded. "No note? No location?" Her glare was answer enough. "I thought you said that just early yesterday morning, he was delirious with a fever of 103 even on multiple meds."

"He was. And barely 12 hours later, he's gone. He did at least take the antibiotics with him, but on top of everything else he's dealing with at the moment, he isn't well. Not as well as he thinks he is. I'd meant to get a chest x-ray on him today at the hospital. And we both know that he isn't going to stick to a precise schedule with the antibiotics, even if he intends to. He'll get lost in that mind of his thinking about something and lose track." She was going to wear a track into Wilson's carpet if she kept up her current speed. "I was hoping he'd show up at work this morning, but the one message anybody's heard from him is that he texted the team that he wasn't coming in. So now he's out there somewhere but avoiding his apartment, all of his friends, and his job, while recovering, we hope, from pneumonia. All because YOU couldn't keep your mouth shut."

Wilson picked up a pen, fiddling with it, needing some release for his agitation. "Why would he just leave your place? You're the one who hasn't done anything."

"He knew we couldn't hold Blythe off forever. I'd say his message to the team this morning confirms that he's hiding from everything at the moment."

"Have you tried just calling his cell phone?" She gave him a withering glare. "Okay, so he's turned off his phone, too." Wilson did the equation himself, but it sure added up to House in full avoidance mode. "Lord, I'm sorry. I swear, I did NOT think everything would work out like this."

Cuddy's cell phone rang, perhaps fortunately for Wilson as she was considering smacking him again. She pulled it out hopefully, then deflated as she saw that it wasn't House, then started another parallel worry track as she saw that it was the nanny. "Hello?"

"Dr. Cuddy? I've got a problem here."

"Is Rachel okay?" Her voice was sharp with a new wave of concern.

"Oh, yes, Rachel's just fine. But there's a woman outside who is demanding to see her son. I've told her nobody else is here besides me and Rachel, but she doesn't believe me. Is her son the one who . . ."

Cuddy cut her off. "Open the door and give the phone to her. I'll take care of it." Wilson sighed and mouthed the words _good luck_.

Blythe's voice was tight with anxiety. "Lisa? I've had enough of this stalling. _Where is my son?"_

"Well, um, he's probably going to be at the hospital later. He never gets here until late."

"I called his office. Somebody named Kutner said he'd called in sick again." Cuddy sighed. Kutner really needed to learn the art from House of selective truth telling. "But if he's still sick, why isn't he still at your place?"

"Maybe he went back home and you passed him on the way. Why don't you try going back by his apartment - softly, parking down the street - and see if he's there?"

Blythe's tone was disbelieving. "You don't know where he is, do you? I thought you said he was sick!"

"He was. He is."

"You said you'd be taking care of him!"

Cuddy sighed again. "Blythe, he left while I was catching a nap and thought he was already asleep. He must have been faking it." She had been careful to never drop off herself until his breathing leveled out. "Sometimes, he just has to retreat and go think about things when a lot is going on. It's how he processes. I'm sure he'll be back." Hopefully still with both lungs functional.

Blythe was twittering like a bird now. "We need to contact the police. We can file a missing person's report."

"He's an adult, and he left voluntarily in his own car. I don't think the police would pay much attention to this." She was positive the police would have better things to do. On the other hand, it might be a channel for some of Blythe's nervous energy and give her a new opponent to annoy for a while. "You might go talk to them, though. See if they could at least watch out for the car." Wilson gave Cuddy a thumbs up, and she scowled at him, letting him know that he was definitely not off the hook yet for his part in this whole fiasco.

Blythe seized on the opportunity for action like a lifeline. "I'll do that. I'll go right down to the police station. And I'll check his apartment again, too, in case I did pass him. Oh, Greg! We've got to find him and talk. Okay, I'll hang up now, but I'll let you know what I find out."

"Blythe, this is the nanny's cell phone. Remember to give it back to her."

"Oh, right. Okay. I'll call you from the station, Lisa. Oh, Greg." The last phrase died away on a sob as Blythe hung up.

Cuddy expelled her breath forcefully and just relished silence for a minute. Wilson sat quietly, knowing the feeling. "How did that woman manage to be so oblivious all his childhood and suddenly find her maternal streak when he's 49?"

Wilson shook his head. "I have no idea. You should have heard her all weekend. Her list of things she thinks now she missed eclipses both of us. It's unbelievable that she didn't see everything decades ago. And she just keeps going on about it, like the Energizer bunny. Flaps her hands and keeps twittering like a bird. I was almost ready to kill her just to make her shut up."

Cuddy smiled suddenly, picturing it. "So that's why you got drunk?" Maybe Wilson had paid at least some of the penalty he had coming. Cuddy couldn't imagine a full weekend shut up in an apartment with Blythe.

He nodded. "Knocked her out with House's sleeping pills first, though. I didn't want her to escape while my guard was down."

As House himself had done. Cuddy's smile faded away. "I should have been expecting him to run. From the time I found him Saturday night, even when he was drunk, he tried to get back out. He didn't want to bother me, as he put it. Wanted to half freeze himself do death - and I'm still not sure if that was deliberate or just distraction - but he didn't want to bother me." She shook her head. "But I swear, I thought he was asleep yesterday afternoon. We'd been sleeping most of the day, just waking up every hour and a half so he wouldn't have nightmares." Wilson quirked an eyebrow. "It is _definitely _on a schedule of just under 2 hours, and no, he didn't explain that to me, but he confirmed the schedule. He must have been faking being asleep that last time. I really hoped he'd come to work today, to take his mind off everything by getting lost in a case. Unless he got more sick during the night again, wherever he was staying." She sank into one of the chairs in front of the desk, her legs suddenly weak, as she remembered Sunday night and imagined House going through it again in a hotel room alone with only his ghosts for company, with no one to help or even notice.

Wilson came around the desk and put a hand on her arm cautiously. "We'll find him, Cuddy. He'll come back to us, sooner or later."

"I hope so, Wilson." But her mind added the trailer, _if he can._


	13. Chapter 13

Jensen unlocked his office, entering for his usual pre appointment routine. He always arrived an hour before his secretary, to spend the time going over charts quietly and thinking without interruption through the patients he would see that day.

Today would prove to be different. He came to a startled stop just inside the door, seeing the man sitting behind his secretary's desk with both legs propped up on it and crossed at the ankles, eyes open but unfocused - or rather focused on something far beyond the room. "Dr. House?"

House's eyes clicked like a camera focusing. "Dr. Jensen. Need some help."

Jensen came the rest of the way in and closed the door. "What are you doing in my office - in my locked office? If there's an emergency, you had my phone number."

House's response was inaudible, almost like he was afraid to let the words out.

"What did you say?"

The words were still soft but at least audible this time. "Not as easy to turn me down if I'm already sitting here."

"You think I wouldn't believe you if you called and asked for an emergency appointment before your next scheduled one?" House didn't bother answering, but he didn't need to. "And you didn't answer the point about the locks."

"Locks aren't that hard to get through. I've had some experience at it."

Jensen let that slide for the moment. The closer he looked at House, the more he realized that the man, for all his nonchalant facade, had not been exaggerating by considering whatever it was an emergency. House looked absolutely awful, his clothes even more wrinkled than before, eyes almost artificially bright behind the intelligence in them, his posture slumped not in a defiant statement to the world but almost as if it was hard to hold himself upright at the moment. His good hand was resting across his right thigh. He looked like a strange combination of physically pummeled and psychologically strung as tight as piano wires.

"Come on through into my office. I always get here early, and I don't have an appointment for two hours." Jensen watched House swing his legs down from the desk, using his hand to manually move the right one, and then switch handhold to the desk to assist in almost literally dragging himself to his feet. The limp when he walked toward the inner office was far worse than it had been at the Saturday appointment, and his posture still wasn't totally straight. He looked like either his chest or his side was hurting, in addition to the leg. Exceptionally coordinated and graceful was hardly an apt description at the moment. He also looked even thinner than he had before, and it hadn't been that long.

"Dr. House, are you all right? You don't look well."

House hesitated before picking a different chair this time, a more comfortable one that had an ottoman in front of it, and again using his hand to bring his leg up. "I'm okay. Caught a bit of a cold Saturday night, but I'm on meds for it."

"Antibiotics?" House nodded. "Even as a psychiatrist, I know that antibiotics do nothing for a cold. That's treatment for an infection."

House shrugged. "It's _treatment_. That's the important thing here. If I wanted people worrying about me physically, I could have just stayed in Princeton."

His tone had more edge on it today, all of his movements sharper. Jensen felt like he was standing on the edge of an unmarked minefield, heading out to rescue someone already trapped in the middle of it. He walked over to the coffee pot in the corner, which was set on a timer to have his first cup hot and waiting for him each morning. "Would you like a cup of coffee?"

House nodded, and Jensen busied himself with the cups, offered cream and sugar, and then brought House's over to him. "So you _are_ on medical treatment for the physical infection at the moment."

"Yes. And getting better." Which reminded him, he hadn't taken his morning dose of antibiotics yet, had lost track of time while sitting in Jensen's office. He thought he remembered taking Vicodin earlier but not the rest of them. He pulled out all of his pill bottles, taking everything except Vicodin, and tossed it back in one handful, washing it down with a slug of coffee. "There, see? I'm taking my meds."

Jensen forced himself not to comment. He settled down behind his desk with his own cup of coffee. "How long have you been here?"

"Since about 5:00 a.m." Jensen flinched. "I wanted to get in before people started moving around all the other offices. Much better to break in without witnesses." He took another drink of coffee, got himself choked over it, and went into a coughing fit. Jensen stayed behind the desk, waiting. House definitely wasn't well, physically or psychologically. At least he was already getting treatment for the one and had come for help for the other.

"So you left Princeton around 3:00 a.m.?" Jensen continued on smoothly as if nothing had happened after House had recovered.

"Actually, I left Princeton about 3:00 p.m. yesterday. Left my boss's house then, drove up last night, checked into a motel, and took a sleeping pill. Came on to your office this morning."

"What were you doing at your boss's house at 3:00 p.m. on a workday?"

"I called in sick yesterday. Actually, she called me in sick, didn't give me a chance to argue."

"Would you have?"

"Would I have what?"

"Disputed the fact that you were sick yesterday? Just from what I've seen so far this morning, I have no question it was the truth."

"I guess not. She called in, too, but she was faking it. I guess when you're the boss, you can do that."

"So she was perfectly fine yesterday?"

House's eyes fell. "No. She wasn't sick, but she was totally worn out. She'd been taking care of me since Saturday night." He remembered how utterly weary Cuddy had looked asleep on her bed. He'd wasted five minutes just watching her before he softly crept out, but she was so tired that he doubted avoiding noise had really been necessary.

Back to Saturday night. "What happened Saturday night?" Jensen asked directly.

"Remember Wilson?"

"Your best friend."

"Thought so, anyway. He's the only other person besides my boss who knew." Jensen nodded. He didn't have House's chart in front of him, but some patients stuck in his memory more strongly than others, and it had only been three days ago. "While I was up here starting therapy and avoiding my mother, he set up a lunch meeting with her behind my back and told her everything."

Jensen literally dropped his pen. "So he violated your confidence. How did your mother react?"

House snorted, which made him have to cough again. "How do you think she'd react? She went straight to my apartment to talk it all out with me and apologize." His hand tightened on his leg involuntarily, and he flinched. "She thought she could just apologize, like that would erase everything."

Jensen was acutely aware of the mines surrounding them at this point. "So you returned to your apartment and walked in on your mother, who immediately tried to apologize. Your friend hadn't called you? Warned you?"

House shook his head. "I had no idea until I got to my apartment. I thought she was long past Princeton."

"You didn't see her car outside?"

"Someone on the block was having a party. There were cars all over, no parking space in front."

"What did you say to your mother when she apologized?"

House had to take a minute to think about it. "I don't _think_ I said anything to her." He honestly couldn't remember from Blythe's grating repetition of I'm sorry to finding himself in his car driving away. The clearest memory from that confrontation, actually, was Wilson's shocked and remorseful and guilty eyes meeting his own over Blythe's shoulder.

"You don't _think_ you said anything? You don't remember?"

House sighed. "She was . . . soon as I walked in, she just tackled me, and she was saying she was sorry, over and over. And it reminded me of the stairs."

"The phrase sorry reminds you of something your father did? Did your father use that phrase insincerely?"

"He flipped it around on me. I was telling him I was sorry for making him mad, and he said he'd prove to me that saying you were sorry meant nothing. Then he said I'm sorry just as he pushed me." House shifted in the chair. He was sweating somewhat now just thinking about it. _I'll prove it to you. I'm sorry, Greg._ His father's voice might have been in the very room with them, and he jumped.

"Are you all right?" House didn't answer, and Jensen stood and came around his desk, approaching him carefully. "You're in my office, remember? No one is here except us. I'm going to check your pulse, okay?" He reached out to pick up House's right wrist, which told him two things: First, that his pulse was indeed fast, and second, that he had a fever at the moment. House didn't react to the physical touch, and Jensen reached up to feel his forehead, gauging. Not a high fever, but definitely present. House pulled away a bit from that, his eyes going to Jensen and looking startled. Jensen hooked the nearest chair over to them with his foot and sat down next to his patient. "It's okay. Nobody is here except us. Do you see or hear anybody else?"

House cleared his throat and then shook his head. "Just . . . remembered. Not hallucinating."

"Okay." Jensen took his pulse again. It was starting to slow down some. "How are you feeling right now, physically? Are you having trouble breathing?"

"Not any more than . . . " House shut down on the end of that sentence. "I'm okay . . .I think. Just give me a minute."

"All right." Jensen sat there quietly, watching his patient closely while appearing not to. It was a skill he'd perfected. He'd also fortunately perfected the skill of not showing shock at all the revelations he had heard in this office, but he was amazed that House's best friend could have, within two weeks of finding out such a monumental lifelong secret, passed it along to House's mother. He'd love to have a few conversations with the friend and dig into _that _psyche. Meanwhile, he could quite understand how much the revelation and the following confrontation with his mother had upset House. "Are you feeling better now?"

House looked away, ashamed. "Yes. I'm fine. You can go back over to your desk."

"Does it bother you to have me sitting here beside you?" He saw the flicker in House's eyes. "Not that it bothers you; you just assume that I don't really want to. Is that it? You think people only get close to you out of obligation and must want to leave as soon as they have opportunity?" House didn't answer. "Actually, I think I'll stay here, if you don't mind. I realize you picked this chair to prop your leg up on the ottoman, but it's one of the furthest from my desk, and the distance was bothering _me._ Do you mind if I stay sitting here?" House hesitated, then shook his head. "Okay, let's pick it up after you walked out of your apartment Saturday night. I assume you did walk out?" He was fishing now, trying to define when an obvious flashback had ended. It was clear that House didn't remember the ending of the confrontation after his mother's repeated apology.

"Right. I . . .um . . . decided to go get drunk."

"Okay. Did you go to a bar?"

House shook his head. "Too many people. Besides, I wanted to be close . . . " He trailed off.

"Close to whom? To your boss?"

"We . . .had a date Friday night. It was perfect - I thought."

"Did she know your friend's intentions for Saturday?"

"She said later that she didn't."

"And you don't believe her?"

"I want to, but . . . they've talked about everything. All the last two weeks. The transcripts would probably deserve an ISBN number at this point. She says my mother did come up, that she should have known, but she didn't put it together."

"Why should she have known? Does your friend have a prior history of deciding what needs to be done in your life and acting on it?"

House chuckled. "You might say that. Again, the whole story needs an ISBN number."

"So back to Saturday night, you didn't know at that point if your boss had been part of this or not, and with the date from Friday fresh in your mind, you decided to get as close to her as you could but without her noticing your presence." Jensen smiled himself at House's look of surprise. "Trust me, it isn't that unusual of a reaction. So if you didn't go to a bar, I assume that you took some liquor to her place?" House nodded. "Did you sit outside in the car to get drunk?"

"No, I left the car a street over. Didn't want her to know I was there."

"So you walked a block in cold rain with a bad leg just to keep her from realizing your presence."

House nodded. "I didn't want to bother her."

"That's an interesting way of putting it. You thought that your presence would be a burden to her, even if she hadn't been part of your friend's betrayal?"

House looked away. "Nobody really wants to be around me." That was stated as absolute fact.

"So on the date Friday night, which you said was perfect, I assume you realize now in retrospect that she was showing signs of actually being bored or displeased? Eyerolls? Sighs? Looking at her watch? All those ways women give off body language that they are hating their current activity?"

"Ah ha, you're trying to confuse me now."

"No, I'm just trying to get you to look at it clearly. Think about Friday night, in retrospect. Was there _any_ indication, verbally or otherwise, on Friday night that she was not enjoying your company?"

House took a minute, scrambling through memory, but was forced to finally concede. "No."

"Think about times other than Friday night. How does she usually give signals that she doesn't enjoy your company?"

"She gets this exasperated eye roll and dramatic tone in her voice - but her eyes light up, too."

"So at worst, your company has some positive aspects for her along with negative, and at best, like Friday, she apparently has a wonderful time on a date with you."

House tilted his head, considering that, then immediately dodged back. "So back to Saturday night." Jensen was fascinated. Talking about what was clearly an extremely traumatic and betraying evening for him was less emotionally charged than trying to define his boss's possible feelings for him, and vice versa? "I walked over from my car with the sack from the liquor store, and I sat down outside on her porch and drank until I passed out. But it turns out, she wasn't even home."

"You thought she was?"

"Lights were on. Stereo playing. It was just the sitter; _she_ was out at a hospital fundraiser. She came home after midnight, tripped over me, and she and the sitter dragged me inside."

"How long had you been outside?"

"Just over four hours."

"So that's how you got sick. Saturday night was awful weather. Did you intentionally mean to do yourself harm?"

House took time to consider it. "Not really. I just didn't care. My mother knew, and Wilson had told her, and everything Friday night was just an illusion. I just wanted to get away from it all for a while. I wasn't actually trying to make myself sick."

"Why would you say Friday night was an illusion?"

"We were _happy_." He almost spat out the answer. "I should have known then it wouldn't last. I can't be happy, especially not in a relationship. I always screw it up. I always will."

"Who told you that? Your father?" House looked down, fiddling with the end of his cast. "I would venture that your father never had much success in relationships himself, did he?"

House looked surprised. "Well . . ."

"Describe his relationship with your mother. Did he get violent with her?"

House shook his head. "He . . . um. . . threatened to. To me, if I told. But I don't think he ever did anything to her. She never seemed aware . . . "

"So describe their marriage, in one word. Give me an adjective."

"Artificial."

"Okay. What about his friends? Did he have close friends?"

"No."

"Was there anybody who seemed to enjoy spending time with your father, who wanted to be around him, who seemed close to him?"

"No."

"So how did he become the relationship oracle? I'd say he actually saw your charm and appeal and charisma and knew that you had far more potential for success in an area in which he was a failure, so he tried to sabotage your future because he was afraid of it." House looked stunned. "Does that make sense?"

"I . . . um . . .I guess in theory, it might. Except . . . "

"You don't think you have charm and appeal and charisma, do you? Trust me, Dr. House, you do." House still looked unconvinced. Jensen thought it was time to leave that seed for a while, having tucked it into the dirt and hopefully watered it. "Okay, back to Saturday night. Your boss found you drunk on her doorstep and brought you in. What did she do then?"

"She called Wilson to bring some antibiotics."

"In the middle of the night?" House nodded. "So you were already running a fever at that point. You have one right now, did you know that?" Jensen reached across to touch his forehead again.

"It's lower now, though. It's getting better." House dodged back off the subject of himself physically. "She apparently found out then what Wilson had done; he told her when she brought over the antibiotics."

"And how did she react?"

"She hit him."

Jensen chuckled. "I must say, your boss sounds like a remarkable woman." It was the truth, but he also said it partly to assess House's reaction.

"Oh, believe me, she is." The eyes lit up, some of the tension lines faded away. Yes, there was definitely something there. "So then, she threw Wilson out and told him to keep my mother away all weekend while I slept it off."

"So she took care of you for the remainder of the weekend. You already said that yesterday, she called both of you in sick. Did you mother come over yesterday?"

"She wanted to, and Wilson was losing control, but _she _talked to her and held her off for at least another day. Told her I was sick. Then we slept most of the day in short naps; _she_ was totally worn out herself after Sunday night."

"What happened Sunday night?"

"I don't remember; I had taken sleeping pills. She said my fever spiked, and she was up for a while getting it back down with cold compresses."

"So she was still taking care of you physically. Once again, in retrospect, did she show any signs, any body language, that this was simply a burden to her and she wished she didn't have to?"

House considered it. "She looked tired," he said finally. "She looked exhausted."

"Understandably." Jensen took a turn again, leaving the thought there to hopefully ferment. "So yesterday afternoon, about 3:00, you left. I assume you didn't tell her, didn't leave her a note?"

"I left her a bottle of morphine."

"A bottle of morphine?"

"Injections for the leg, when the pain is really bad - or when I'm hungover and can't keep down the pain meds. I took the antibiotics with me, but I left the morphine. That was sort of a message."

"What do you think it said?"

"That even though I was leaving, I wasn't going to overdose or something stupid. That she shouldn't worry about me."

"And do you think she read your message?"

House grinned. "I'm _sure_ she read the message. She probably didn't agree with it - at least the don't worry part - but she knew what I meant."

"Why did you sneak out while she was asleep?"

"She would have wanted me to stay. But she looked so tired, and I knew my mother wouldn't stay on hold. I just needed to get away to think."

Jensen sighed. A true minefield. "So you came here for my advice on how to deal with your mother?"

House nodded. "Exactly."

"How do you think it will go? Describe the imagined meeting to me."

"I'll walk in, she'll attach herself to me like an octopus, and she'll say, 'Oh, Greg,' about 50 times, then 'I'm sorry' another 50, and then she'll want me to say it's all perfectly okay, and then we'll move on and live happily ever after."

Jensen grinned. "Is your mother rather . . .emotional? Clingy? Naive?"

"Yes, yes, and absolutely yes."

"While you are scared to death of emotions, of physical contact, and are anything but naive. Not to mention that this coming conversation was not your idea in the first place and should never have been forced onto you right now against your will. I can see the difficulty there." House shifted, and Jensen caught the movement. Not an emotional dodge, that one. "Are you okay? Is something hurting more?"

"Leg is cramping up a bit. It didn't like 4 hours on the concrete in the rain Saturday night much." House tried to massage it one handed.

"Would you like me to help you?" Jensen offered in a totally objective tone, leaving no preference or hurt feelings either way.

House hesitated, then gave a sigh and nodded. "I can usually work it out myself, but the cast . . ."

"That's understandable." Jensen reached over and starting massaging the thigh muscle where House's efforts had been centered, feeling the deep crater beneath the jeans, as well as the cramping muscles. He hadn't discussed House's leg yet, but he wondered now what exactly had happened. It felt like a good portion of his upper leg was actually missing. Jensen was careful to keep his face absolutely neutral. He gradually worked out the spasm, and when he looked back up a few minutes later, House's eyes were closed. Jensen could tell he wasn't asleep, but the unguarded look at his face was interesting. He could see the lines of pain, years' worth as well as acute, and the extreme emotional tension at the moment. And also, once again, the fact that House did not look well. "Is that better?" he asked.

House's eyes opened. "Yes. Thanks." He straightened up, and Jensen sat back, giving him a bit of distance again. "So what do I do? I want to just run . . . but I doubt it would work forever."

Jensen had a feeling that that statement alone was a monumental step for this patient. "You're right, it wouldn't. But you are absolutely justified to feel betrayed by your friend. He had no right to break your confidence. This is not how things should have gone." He glanced at his watch. "Have you had breakfast?" Remembering that House had been in his office since 5:00, he doubted it, and he thought again that the man looked thinner, just in a few days.

House had to stop to think about that. Interesting. "No."

"Look, there's a little cafe down on the corner. I'm going to go down there and get us something, and I'll bring it back. We'll talk some more afterward, okay?"

"Are you all right on time?" Jensen thought that for somebody who claimed not to care about conventions, House could be surprisingly considerate.

"We're fine. I'm hungry myself; I quite often go get one of their pastries in the mornings when I'm doing early paperwork." He stood up. "I'll be back in a few minutes, okay?"

House nodded and let his eyes close again, and Jensen left the office suite. He met his secretary just coming into the building as he was exiting. "Janice, there's a patient up in my office. I'm just going down to the cafe to get something to eat for both of us. I need you to move my first appointment this morning, try to stick it on the end of the day. It's just a routine followup, so hopefully he won't mind. Tell him I had an emergency consult come up this morning. About half an hour after I return and go into my office, call me and tell me that that appointment has been moved."

Janice nodded. "Okay, Dr. Jensen."

"I'll be back in a few minutes." Jensen headed on out the door toward the cafe, wondering about the best friend who apparently had a history of managing House's life and decisions, the boss whose name he never mentioned in these sessions, and the mother whose marriage had been "artificial," combining all of that with the man who, while physically sick and with nerves stretched to the limit, also had come to a tentative conclusion that running away might not be a viable long-term solution.

Yes, today was definitely starting out in a minefield. Jensen sent up a quick prayer for the accuracy of his steps as he got in line at the cafe.


	14. Chapter 14

Cuddy's cell phone rang for the umpteenth time that day, and she pulled it out with a sigh. Conversations so far today had included with Blythe at her house, with Blythe at the police station, with Blythe from House's apartment (three times), and with Blythe from the park that Wilson happened to have mentioned that House loved. Cuddy was ready by now to eliminate the Blythe problem by killing her and hiding the body in the morgue. No wonder House had run for the hills.

Underlying all of the frustration, though, was the growing worry. None of them had seen or heard anything from House all day. It was now mid afternoon. He'd been gone probably around 24 hours now, and just over 36 hours ago, he had been teetering on the verge of requiring urgent hospitalization.

She unsnapped the cell phone without looking at it, wishing for once for a hospital problem instead of Blythe again like an annoying sequel to a bad movie. "Dr. Cuddy."

"Cuddy."

She literally dropped the phone, coming straight up out of the chair in front of Wilson's desk, where she had been at the moment discussing Blythe strategies. Wilson raised an eyebrow as Cuddy pounced after the phone, chasing it under the chair like a cat in pursuit of a mouse. She captured her prey, snapped it back up to her ear, and gave a groan. The call had been disconnected. "Damn!" _Call back. Please call back._

"Was that House? Did he hang up on you?"

"No, damn it. I mean yes, it was House. But I hung up on him." She stared at the phone with laser intensity as if her thoughts alone had the power to make it ring. "Call back."

The phone obligingly rang, and she snapped it open. "House?"

"If you didn't want to talk to me, all you had to do was say so." His tone didn't sound much like himself, but the effort at a joke was there, and she was relieved to hear it.

"Dropped the phone. Are you okay?"

"Fine."

"Are you taking your antibiotics? How's the fever? And the cough?"

"Cuddy, I'm _fine_. Getting better. And yes, I'm taking the antibiotics."

"On the correct schedule?"

"I swear, I'm about to hang up if we don't get off this subject. I'm _fine._"

She backed off for the moment. "Where are you?"

"In my car at the moment, sitting in a parking lot at a mall. About to hit the highway in a minute when I hang up. I should be back in Princeton tonight."

She let out a deep sigh. "I was afraid that you . . ." She broke off, not wanting to say it to him.

He finished the sentence anyway. "That I just ran? Can't blame you. Actually, I started to, but I got to thinking on the way, and I didn't make it past Middletown."

Cuddy felt a smile spreading across her face like sunrise after a long night. She couldn't help it. "Hang on a second, House. I'm going to take this call privately." She looked pointedly at Wilson. "Wilson, get lost."

"Is he okay?"

"Yes. Get lost."

"But we're in my office," the oncologist objected.

"Which is in my hospital," Cuddy countered.

Wilson sighed and stood up. "I'm glad you're okay, House," he called loud enough to hear. "I really do apologize for everything." He left the office.

"Okay, we're alone," Cuddy said. "I never did get a chance to talk to you about Saturday. You liked Dr. Jensen, I take it?"

"He's very . . . perceptive." House still sounded edgy. "I spent all morning today talking to him, and then this afternoon thinking. I'll tell you sometime, but one of the things we're going to try to do is cut this mess up into bite-sized pieces. A little at a time, try to regain some control over it and keep from getting overwhelmed and . . . zoning out like Saturday night. But I just can't talk to everybody at once, and I really think my mother is the most urgent part to deal with, ahead of you and Wilson."

"Agreed. I understand; I'll wait in line. You don't have to talk to me until you're ready, and you can make it whatever sized bites you want. And House, I apologize profusely for any time that I have ever suggested that you spend time with your parents. Either one."

She heard the smile in his voice. "Have you had a few conversations with my mother today?"

"I swear, I'm one step short of murder. Wilson would help us hide the body."

"Don't tempt me." He sighed. "She's really not as bad as this all the time. She's just totally jarred at the moment, and she doesn't deal with conflict well. Anyway, I'll be back in Princeton in about 2 hours, but I'm not going to my apartment. I'm going to check into a hotel. Conversations with her about . . . stuff will be timed to five minutes; that's about all I think I can take at once. And until she's firmly cooperating with that, I don't want her to know where I'm staying. But I wanted to tell you not to worry. I'll have my cell phone on now, and I'll be into work tomorrow."

Cuddy smiled. "Okay. I'll see you tomorrow, then. Maybe call you tonight, after you get settled?"

"That's fine."

"And House." She paused to make sure she had his full attention. "I am _really _proud of you."

The several-second silence was more profound than a reply could have been. "I'll see you later, Cuddy," he said finally. "Bye."

"Bye, House." She hung up the phone, and then she stood and went into an impromptu dance right in the middle of Wilson's office. He had started to run - but he had stopped, and he was coming back to face everything, to try to clean up a mess that honestly was not his fault. She still was a bit worried - he had definitely been dodging physical questions in that conversation - but she'd see him soon. He was coming home. They could find some way to deal with it all.

(H/C)

House closed the door behind the exiting bell boy in his hotel room. He looked at the duffel bag that had been brought up - he'd picked up a few clothes at the mall - and considered taking a shower to try to work out some of the achiness, but he decided to lie down for a minute first. As long as he didn't drop off to sleep, he should be okay.

He stretched out on the bed and pulled out his cell phone, looking at it. He had to call his mother and give her the ground rules, and Cuddy would probably want to know he was here, but at the moment, he lacked the energy to talk to anyone. He was bone tired after all the emotional strain of the day, and his chest was still hurting somewhat. Leg, too, of course. He put the cell phone down but didn't close his eyes.

As he'd admitted to Cuddy, he really had intended to just run yesterday, not even noticing direction. His thoughts kept coming back to Cuddy, though, lying there asleep as he'd left her. He knew she'd worry, even with his morphine note. The thought of never seeing her again had teetered in a scale against his mother on the other side as he drove, and the scale finally tipped down. He couldn't avoid everything forever, and he didn't even want to avoid parts of everything. For the first time, he realized clearly that life as a whole had to be dealt with, that he couldn't just take the pieces that didn't hurt too much and run from the others. He knew, too, that he would wind up hurting her more by just disappearing. It was just then in his thoughts that he had passed the city limit sign to Middletown and realized the road his subconscious had already chosen. He'd decided to try talking it out with Jensen, who at least would earn money for his trouble.

This morning had been nerve-wracking. Jensen was good, though, guiding and suggesting while not actually giving House the Mapquest-style directions for disaster sorting 101, which would have been extremely helpful right now. Talking had helped, though. Still, it had worn him out.

He realized that his eyes were sliding shut and firmly opened them. He couldn't sleep yet, and dropping off would be a golden invitation to a nightmare. He had to talk to his mother at least briefly tonight, to get her to leave Cuddy alone if nothing else, and Cuddy deserved an update. He'd put her through enough stress in the last 24 hours. He also hadn't eaten dinner yet, and while he wasn't hungry, he ought to make himself eat something and take his evening meds, so he could tell her that he had when she no doubt would ask. He pushed himself wearily up off the bed and coughed a few times at the abrupt change in position.

The cell phone rang, and he glanced at caller ID. It was her, checking in as she'd stated. "Holiday Inn, may I help you?" he answered, thereby informing her of his location.

"House." Her voice was taut with worry. "I need you."

He dropped his joking tone. "What's wrong?"

"Rachel started seeming a bit off this afternoon, the sitter said, and now just in the last half hour, she's got a pretty high fever and a cough. I'm taking her in." She knew how fast an infection could sweep through an infant's body, especially an infant who had not had the ideal pregnancy and birth timetable and care.

House felt as if a fist had slugged him in the center of his chest. He knew where Rachel might have picked up an infection in the last few days. So, no doubt, did Cuddy. Pneumonia technically was not itself contagious, but the original bugs that had developed into it could be.

She was speaking again. "I'm heading for the ER now, but I'd appreciate your opinion, just in case it's more than . . ."

House sighed. "I'll meet you there." He would have liked to tell her it would be all right, but he didn't know it would. He'd never been much good at worthless platitudes.

"Thank you." She hung up without saying goodbye.

House sat on the edge of the bed stunned for a minute before he stood up to leave. _How could she possibly thank him?_


	15. Chapter 15

House entered PPTH through the ER door on a fast limp, going straight past the receptionist through the inner doors. He looked around for Cuddy, but it was Cameron whom he first spotted. He limped over to her quickly. "Is Cuddy here with Rachel yet?"

"Just got here. I already had a pediatric intensivist waiting for consult, given her birth history."

House nodded and tripped himself into coughing again. "Where are they?" he asked after he recovered.

Cameron took a good look at him for the first time. "Boy, when you called in sick yesterday and today, you meant it, didn't you?" She reached up toward his forehead, and he backed off in annoyance.

"WHERE are they?"

"Room 5. Are you on antibiotics?"

"Yes. And getting better. I am _not_ the patient here." All this was tossed over his shoulder as he headed off toward room 5, and Cameron sighed and made a mental note to try to catch him while he was still and thinking sometime to get a better assessment.

Cuddy was hovering over the examining table, holding Rachel still as Simmons carefully examined the infant. She didn't even look up as the door slid open, but she did glance away momentarily when House came up beside her. "Thank you for coming."

"You have nothing to thank me for," he replied, but his eyes and attention were already on Rachel.

Cuddy sighed. She knew he would feel guilty. She had been kicking herself for the last hour, remembering how she had gone in to check on Rachel right in the middle of Sunday night's crisis, how she had made no attempt to keep them separate, hadn't even washed her hands. House had hardly been in condition all weekend to think of everything. She was too used to letting him do the thinking medically at times. Just now, though, their mutual guilt would have to be put on the shelf; getting Rachel better took precedence over all else.

"When did she start seeming sick?" House asked.

"The sitter said she didn't have much appetite at lunch and seemed a bit off this afternoon, but she wasn't running a fever until about an hour ago. Then it suddenly took off, and she's coughing, too."

House counted the breaths. Rapid, shallow breathing. He glanced up at the readings. BP a bit low, pulse oximetry more than a bit low, even on oxygen. "I'd go ahead and intubate her," he said. "She's so little, it could take off quickly."

Simmons stepped back and nodded. As a pediatric intensivist, he had less exposure to House than some of the other staff, and consequently, his respect for him was undiluted. "Just what I was thinking. And IV support, too, of course."

"Careful on that; we don't want to get her fluid overloaded with presumed pneumonia. Definitely add pressors for the BP, though. Have you gotten a chest x-ray yet?"

"Just about to. I'll place an arterial line and get ABGs, too."

House nodded and choked back another cough. Simmons glanced at him, as did Cuddy for the first time. "House, are you . . ."

"YES, I'm taking my antibiotics." He studied Rachel. "Awfully fast presentation for pneumonia, but she was a compromised infant. I want to see the chest x-ray."

The rolling baby cart arrived just then to take Rachel to radiology, and everyone stepped back. "I'm . . . sorry," House said softly to Cuddy, and even as he used the phrase he hated, he remembered his father pointing out how meaningless it was.

"I should have been thinking myself; you were hardly in any condition to." The cart headed out quickly, and Cuddy charged after it, with House limping desperately to keep up behind the entourage.

"Oh, GREG! There you are!" Blythe had been coming back to the hospital to check his office just in case, entering through the always-open ER doors, and she nearly walked straight into her target. She darted over to him, gripping his good arm tightly. "Greg, I . . . I apologize for everything. I swear, I never knew."

The crowded ER, staff and patients, looked up with interest. Cuddy glanced back as Rachel's cart paused at the elevators, and House grabbed his mother's arm firmly right-handed and limped awkwardly without his cane the few steps to a supply closet. He opened the door, shoved her in, entered himself, and slammed the door behind them.

"LISTEN," he hissed quietly but with deadly intensity. "I swear, if you make one public scene on this or bring one more person into the loop besides Wilson and Cuddy, whether you shared that knowledge intentionally or not, I will never speak to you again."

Blythe stared at him, abruptly realizing how many people had been around. She hadn't even noticed them. House continued. "This is PRIVATE. It will only be discussed in private, which is defined as not one soul within hearing distance other than you and me. Understand?"

She nodded. "I'm s. . . I apologize. I didn't realize how many people were around. I shouldn't have said anything there."

"Okay, second point. Right now, Cuddy's baby is critically ill, and I'm consulting on that. Medical emergencies take precedence over anything dealing with me. So when I'm tied up in a case or on a consult, this will get pushed off to wait for later. Got it?"

Blythe nodded again. She had never seen him looking so absolutely serious. She had no doubt that his opening threat of never speaking to her again had been sincere.

"Third point. I know you want to rehash my entire childhood and clear it all up in one conversation, but it's not going to happen. That's too much at once. I can't deal with it all; I'll . . . shut down like I did Saturday night. Understand?"

Blythe swallowed. She could not get the picture of him Saturday night out of her head, with his eyes unfocused and him lashing out blindly, fighting frantically against something she and Wilson could not see. "I understand."

House was amazed. Jensen had told him that his mother, used to responding to her Marine husband throughout her marriage, would be likely to at least listen to clearly defined limits and orders, even if she might have to be reminded of them later, but House himself hadn't really expected it to work. "So talking about the past will be limited to five minutes at a time, always privately, and not at points when other important medical things are going on demanding my attention."

"Okay. I understand, Greg. We can take the time you need on it."

Wow. For this alone, Jensen had earned his fee for today. "All right. Right now, I have to get back up to check on Rachel. Things between us are going to have to wait. But I WILL talk to you, in small bites."

"Okay." She studied him, frowning. "You really have been sick, haven't you?"

House was starting to feel like he needed to get business cards printed up to pass out which stated in bold print, "I'm getting better, damn it." He could hardly say that to his mother, though. "Yes, I was sick, but I'm on antibiotics now, and it's getting better."

Blythe reached out to brush a hand across his forehead. "You're running a fever."

"Which is lower than it was before, because I'm getting _better._ I've got to get back to Rachel now."

"Have you eaten?"

He scowled at her. "Mom, I _really _don't have time to take out for dinner right now."

"I know. I was thinking I could buy you a Reuben and take it up to your office for later, whenever you did have a few minutes to get to it. It'll be cold, but you like them like that."

His expression softened. "That would be fine, Mom. Thanks."

She approached him tentatively, holding out her arms, and he let her hug him. "Greg, I swear, I never knew."

"I know. It helped, actually. You were the one part of childhood that was normal." He stepped away. "I've got to go."

He slipped out of the supply closet and headed off at his fastest limp to Radiology, and within the closet, Blythe blinked back tears, suddenly struck by how much he could, when in determined mode, resemble his father. His _real_ father.


	16. Chapter 16

It had been a long, dark afternoon for Wilson.

Cuddy's words, "Get lost," had cut him to the quick, the more so because he knew that he fully deserved them. The more he thought about what he had done, the more he was stunned that he ever could have thought it would be a positive thing. Yet he had. He genuinely had thought that bringing Blythe into the loop would let her start processing things on her own and in fact make it much easier down the road when she eventually talked to House after they had both had several sessions of therapy. He still questioned whether House would have ever told her, but he was sure she had needed to know.

Cuddy's words from Saturday night replayed in his mind, stuck since like a hung record. "Of COURSE she needed to know. But WE didn't need to be the ones to tell her."

How could he possibly have seen one side of that equation so clearly and totally missed the other?

He left PPTH early after Cuddy's dismissal and went back to his apartment just to think. His conclusion after several hours was that if he wanted any chance of repairing his friendship with House, he needed to work through some things himself. Looking for the first time at his entire history with his best friend, he realized that all of the problems and emotional instability might not be on one side. But Wilson had been seeing a therapist, had been on anti-anxiety meds, had tried antidepressants. It hadn't helped even with the problems he admitted to, and it certainly hadn't helped with the massive issues in making decisions for others that he now realized he had.

The look on House's face when he walked into his apartment Saturday night had kept coming back to Wilson. Two looks, actually. The look when House first entered, and the look a microsecond later when he realized with the snap of his mental puzzle pieces clicking together what Blythe's presence meant that Wilson had done. The second look had been so wounded, so unbelieving, that it hurt Wilson far more than Cuddy's slap later that night.

But that first look, in that instant before he had noticed them. House had looked not happy but cleansed, like the feeling when you freshly step out of a shower. Not with all fixed, of course, but with progress, definite progress. Wilson had not had a chance to talk about House's appointment Saturday and might not have a chance for quite a while the way things were going, but he would bet a year's salary that House had found it truly helpful. In merely one session, the psychiatrist in Middletown had put an expression there that Wilson himself had never had on his own face when leaving his appointments, and he'd been seeing his therapist for years.

Maybe, just maybe, it was time for a second opinion. If House had taught him one thing, it was that not all doctors are created anywhere near equal.

Wilson spent a bit of time going through the online professional registries, trying to recall the name that House had mentioned once offhandedly several days ago before Blythe, and then he picked up the phone and dialed.

"Dr. Jensen, may I help you?"

The man answered his own phone? Oh, of course, it was well into evening now. His secretary had probably gone. "Um, Dr. Jensen, my name is Dr. James Wilson. I'm from Princeton. I believe you saw a friend of mine, Dr. Gregory House, on Saturday."

The voice was politely impenetrable. "Whether I did or not, I am unable to share any information about any of my patients. Surely you as a doctor are aware of that."

"Oh, I'm not asking you to violate his confidentiality. Believe me, that's the last thing I want to do." Wilson's voice had a world of emphasis in it.

On the other end, Jensen eyed the things on his desk and wondered what was up here. He had actually been staying late doing paperwork while half waiting a call, because he had told House just that morning that he could call him at any time that evening after the preliminary ground rules conversation with his mother if he needed to talk. He had, in fact, left House an open invitation to call him any time whatsoever, 24/7, as well as another scheduled appointment and the assurance that he could see him earlier if required. Wilson hadn't mentioned this morning, though, had just mentioned House seeing him Saturday. Presumably, Wilson did not realize what House's activities today had been. "How can I help you then, Dr. Wilson?"

Wilson picked up a pen, needing something in his nervous hands to fiddle with. "Well, um, a lot has happened since Saturday. And I've realized that I have some major issues I need to work through myself. I'm not calling you for him. I'm calling you for me. I'd like to make an appointment."

Oh, this was going to be an interesting tightrope. "Why would you want a psychiatrist 2 hours away?"

"Well, House only picked you to dodge his mother, I know, but when he came back Saturday night, in the second before he realized what I'd done, he looked . . . better. You had helped him, in just one session. He respected what you'd done. The man is the most brilliant doctor I know, and he doesn't give a professional recommendation, even an unspoken one, lightly. When he does give it, I'd weight that recommendation as well worth a 2-hour drive."

Jensen pulled his appointment book over. "I want it absolutely understood, Dr. Wilson, that if I see you, I will not in any way discuss anything said in the privacy of a session with your friend."

"Agreed. Again, this is for me. I need help myself. It relates to him a bit, but only in that he's made me realize that I myself have a problem."

Jensen continued. "I also would ask that you inform him yourself that you are seeing me on your own behalf, for your own issues, and that I refused to share any details about him with you. You don't have to tell him why you are seeing me unless you wish to, but I do want him to know the fact that you are and that it is not to obtain information on him."

"I'm, um, not sure he's speaking to me."

"That doesn't involve him speaking to you, just listening, which I am sure he will do whether or not he appears to. You need to tell him that yourself before I see you as a patient." Jensen wasn't about to risk House finding this out through any other means, not after his privacy had already been violated so extremely. He needed to know up front, including that confidentiality would be maintained. If Wilson refused to violate his own privacy to the extent of telling his friend that much, Jensen would be forced not to see him. House was simply too fragile right now.

Wilson sighed. "Okay, I'll tell him."

Jensen eyed the appointment book. "Would tomorrow afternoon be too soon?"

"Sooner the better. Tomorrow afternoon is great."

"I have an opening at 5:00." Actually, he normally had his last appointment at 4:00, but for this, he'd add one. Like any psychiatrist, Jensen loved people study, and he was fascinated at the prospect of analyzing both participants to this story.

"I'll see you at 5:00 tomorrow, then. And I will tell him before I leave where I'm going."

"I look forward to it, Dr. Wilson." And you have no idea how much.

Wilson hung up. Now all he had to do was tell House his intentions and Dr. Jensen's limits. He decided to save that conversation until tomorrow morning at PPTH, but for the first time since Saturday night, he felt like maybe, he had done the right thing.


	17. Chapter 17

House entered the ICU room where Simmons and Cuddy were gathered over the infant. Cuddy glanced up as he came in. "You okay?" she asked, referring to the encounter with his mother.

He nodded, both giving her a bit of reassurance and firmly pushing his own issues off to the back burner where they belonged at the moment. "Chest x-ray?"

Simmons switched the wall viewer on. "Looks like infiltrates in both lungs. This is definitely pneumonia. Probably the rapid progression is due to her rough start in life. I've started antibiotic coverage IV for all the major organisms, and we're going to get cultures.

House eyed the chest x-ray, head tilted a bit. He was thinking so hard that the other two doctors could see the wheels turning. "What is it?" Cuddy asked.

"That doesn't look quite typical on the pattern." He sighed in frustration. What did it matter what her chest x-ray looked like when he had given her pneumonia? She was too little still, recovering from prematurity in the first place, and her defenses would naturally be lower.

"It looks pretty typical to me. No two pneumonias look exactly identical," Simmons said.

"Right." House turned back to look at Rachel and then at the monitor screen above her. Saturation was better now that she was intubated. BP still a bit on the low side.

"She also vomited once right before we intubated her," Simmons offered.

House filed it on the symptom list. "Not much else we can do until the cultures return. Definitely keep up the blood gasses, IV antibiotics, close monitoring. Hopefully we'll nail it quickly."

Cuddy reached out and gripped Rachel's little hand between her own, as if she could impart strength to her daughter. "Come on," she urged. "You can beat this. I know you can." House looked at them, then turned away and left unnoticed.

(H/C)

Up in his office, he found the Reuben parked in the middle of his desk, but he had absolutely no appetite. He ate a disinterested bite or two, then pushed it away for later, got a cup of coffee from the adjacent room, and took out his pill bottles for his delayed dinner dose. He took all of the pain meds - his leg was killing him - and the antibiotics that everybody kept nagging him about, but he did not open up the bottle of zolpidem. He knew he'd probably have to crash sooner or later, but he couldn't risk not being able to come fully alert instantly if Cuddy and Rachel needed him. She was too critical right now; he had to keep tabs on her and also make sure Cuddy didn't run herself into collapse from worry. He hoped the coffee would help add some badly needed energy and boost his thoughts. There was something nagging at him about that chest x-ray, but his mind was being annoyingly sluggish at the moment.

He pulled the whiteboard from the conference room into the office and wrote down the symptoms.

Pulmonary infiltrates.

Respiratory distress.

Fever.

Cough.

Hypoxia.

Hypotension.

Vomiting.

Settling into his Eames chair, he propped up his throbbing leg and studied the list. It sure added up to pneumonia. Especially when you added the detail he hadn't written down, that she had had extremely close contact the last few days with someone else who had been sick, not only sick but sick through his own idiocy. House remembered holding her Monday morning, feeding her, just a few hours after his own fever had spiked. He knew she had a compromised system. Why hadn't he thought of it? He'd gone there, to Cuddy's house, and he'd brought the enemy in with him.

Damn. Of all the ways he could imagine hurting Cuddy, he now had a new one, a possibly fatal new one, to add to the list.

His eyes were drifting shut in spite of the coffee. His whole body felt heavy, his thoughts waterlogged. It had been one hell of a long day. Maybe a short nap would help him think. He had to keep updated on Rachel, but fortunately, he came equipped with his own internal 2-hour alarm clock these days. He hauled himself up and locked all the office doors thoroughly, pulling the blinds. Then he took out his cell phone and pager and put them carefully beside him as he settled down into the Eames chair for a private disrupted night of nightmares that was no more than he deserved.

(H/C)

Cuddy had had a chair brought in, and she sat beside Rachel's bed, holding her tiny hand like a lifeline. How could she possibly have been so stupid? Looking back over the last weekend from a physician's point of view, she couldn't believe she hadn't made some effort to keep them separated, to at least wash her hands in between. "Come on, Rachel," she urged her daughter. "You're strong. You survived before. You can make it now." She sat there keeping vigil, wishing that there was something she could do, wishing that she hadn't failed in what she should have done earlier.

(H/C)

Blythe exited the elevator. PPTH at night was quiet, especially on the floors that were mostly offices. She walked over to his office and then stopped at the drawn blinds. She tried the door, but it was locked. Peering through the tiny gaps only showed her indistinct details of a darkened office.

He was in there; she could feel it. Maybe he was getting a nap for a while, afraid to leave the hospital and be out of reach if Cuddy's daughter needed him. Blythe hadn't meant to bother him at the moment anyway, had just wanted to see if her sandwich had been eaten. She tried to look through the blinds to his desk, but she couldn't tell.

She started to turn away, then stopped, looking at the blinds, wondering again how on earth she had missed so much over the years. How had he kept it hidden? _Why_ had he kept it hidden? And above all, why hadn't she seen it anyway? She was his mother. She should have noticed. She sighed and turned away to return to his apartment, wishing that there was something she could do, wishing that she hadn't failed in what she should have done earlier.

(H/C)

House came bolting straight up out of sleep, nearly falling out of the chair. His eyes gradually focused, his mind steadied, and his gasping breaths settled back down. He picked up the pager and cell phone, suddenly worried that he had missed a call from Cuddy, but there were no messages.

He sighed and levered himself up, reaching for his cane. He limped out of the office and took the elevator down to Rachel's room, where he found Cuddy asleep in the chair, both hands still gripping her daughter's. He wasted a good 5 seconds looking at her regretfully before he switched to the infant. He was glad Cuddy was getting some rest, at least; she needed it.

Rachel's pulse ox was steady on the vent, but her fever had not responded yet. He hoped they weren't dealing with some resistant strain and that the initial antibiotics would nail it. She was on the same antibiotic that Cuddy had been using IV with him for the first few days, and it had gotten him over the hump, after all. But Rachel was so little . . . He picked up the chart and looked it over, noting the elevated white count. Definitely an infection, and she was putting up quite a battle against it. He hoped her efforts would be enough. He reached out awkwardly with his right hand and brushed her heated face. "Hang in there, kid," he urged her. "I'm . . . sorry." He looked from her to Cuddy's face, worried even in sleep. "I'm so sorry."

His father had been right. Sorry didn't make any real difference.

(H/C)

The team filed into the conference room the next morning and came to a startled stop at the sight of House, sitting on the glass table and studying the whiteboard intensely. "Are you . . ." Taub started.

"First one to ask if I'm okay is fired," House snapped without looking away from the whiteboard. "New patient. Read the symptoms. Go."

The team exchanged wary glances and sat down around the table, eying the list. "Pneumonia," Foreman said, echoed a second later by the other three. "And why do we have this case? That doesn't need us to figure it out."

"We have this case because the patient is Cuddy's baby."

"Rachel's sick?" Kutner was immediately sympathetic. "Man, she must be going crazy with worry. After she waited so long for a kid, too."

"Just to be thorough, if it's Rachel, we ought to add known pre-existing conditions," Taub suggested. House nodded and wrote prematurity on the board.

Foreman shook his head. "Antibiotics, supportive therapy. Might put her on the vent if it progresses quickly."

"She already _is_ on the vent," House said. "And it already is progressing quickly." He hobbled to his office and snapped the wall viewer on. The team followed. "Does anybody else think this chest x-ray doesn't quite look typical?"

The team studied it. "It looks like pneumonia," Thirteen said. "No two chest x-rays are quite the same."

Wilson entered the office right then. "House, I need to talk to you alone when you have a minute."

"Busy," House snapped, and if the tone had been frosty earlier at his team's entrance, it reached sub-zero temperatures at Wilson's. The four younger doctors looked from one of them to the other.

"What's wrong?" Kutner asked, unable to beat down the curiosity as quickly as the others.

"Ask Wilson sometime. I'm _sure_ he'll tell you," House replied. "But later. All right, assume that this is an atypical pneumonia. What could cause atypical pneumonia?"

"Pericardial cyst?" Taub suggested. "Rare, but it's happened."

House rewarded him with a nod. "Not bad. Get a CT scan of Rachel's chest, particularly noting the heart."

"Rachel? _Cuddy's_ Rachel?" Wilson crossed over immediately to look at the chest x-ray. "Rachel has pneumonia?"

"Acute onset last night," House replied. Their eyes met, with an entire silent conversation between them, and House was the first to look away. "Did I say to go do a CT scan? I wasn't talking to myself."

The team turned and filed out. House dropped into his desk chair, stiffly swinging his leg up to the desk. Wilson came over to stand in front. "You don't know that she caught it from you," he said tentatively.

"Hell of a coincidence if she didn't." House pulled out his Vicodin and swallowed two. His leg was hurting. Everything was hurting.

Wilson studied him. "You look pretty rough yourself. Are you . . . " House opened his eyes again and nailed him with the blue lasers before he could finish the sentence.

"I was here at the hospital all night, keeping up to date on Rachel. You don't look so great after all-nighters yourself." He looked pointedly at Wilson. "Would you go ahead and apologize so you can leave? I assume that's what you came for, but right now, I haven't got the energy to listen."

Wilson sighed. He didn't deserve for this to be easy. "I do apologize, but that's actually not what I wanted to tell you." House looked at him, a flicker of curiosity behind the eyes. "I've been thinking . . ."

"Oh, here we go. Give me the new analysis of what's wrong with me."

"About _me_. About _my _problems. One of which I've realized is compulsively managing other people and making decisions on things that I had no right to make. Not just this weekend. It's been a recurrent problem." He at least had House's attention now. "I think I need help myself. So last night, I called Dr. Jensen."

House sat up so quickly that his leg nearly fell off the desk. "You did _what?"_

"I know I hadn't had a chance to talk to you, but on Saturday, until I screwed everything up, you looked like you thought it had helped. I value your professional opinion. I don't think my therapist is doing that much for me."

House slowed down his breathing as he realized, from Wilson's reference to Saturday, that his friend had no idea where he'd been yesterday. Which meant that Cuddy hadn't told him, even later after evicting him. And which also meant that Jensen had not shared that knowledge. Interesting. "You seriously just happened to pick my psychiatrist - who is 2 hours away - for your own issues? Not to fish for more on me?"

"Yes." Wilson sounded sincere. House still had trouble believing it. "I picked him because I could tell in that initial second Saturday that you respected him. Tell me if I was wrong, that he's a crappy therapist."

House looked away, remembering last night's brief talk with his mother. "He's not a crappy therapist."

"Exactly. You don't respect many other doctors. That's why I picked him. But Jensen insisted that I tell you up front I was going, and he said he will not violate your confidentiality in any way." Wilson studied his friend, trying to get a reading. "I swear, I'm doing this for me, House. I need help. We'll talk about my issues, not yours. Would you rather that I didn't see him?"

House considered it. Wilson was asking him to trust him, except Wilson had a lousy track record the last few days. But the fact that Jensen had insisted on putting House into the loop up front impressed House. If he couldn't trust Wilson at the moment, could he trust Jensen? He picked up his ball and started tossing it with his good hand. There was also the fact that he had thought for years that Wilson's current therapist was incompetent.

"House?" Wilson's voice was pleading. "Tell me something, yes or no. You can decide."

House finally looked back at him. "Go ahead," he said. "He is good. But if I ever find out that you took advantage of the situation, that's it. It's over."

"Thank you. I have an appointment late this afternoon, but you did have to approve it before Jensen will see me." Wilson started out of the office, then turned around, studying his friend. "Are you sure you're okay?" House this morning looked like he should have called in dead, not just sick.

House glared at him. Wilson raised both hands in his helpless forget-it gesture, turned, and left.

(H/C)

When Wilson found her, Cuddy was pacing in the hall as Rachel was prepped for CT. The oncologist handed over a cup of hot coffee, which she gratefully accepted. "I just heard. How's she doing?"

"Not good." Cuddy took a sip of the scalding hot liquid and flinched. "She's not responding so far to the antibiotics." She glanced around to make sure nobody was within earshot and then said softly, "How could I have been so stupid? I've gotten used to letting House think for me, but he was sick himself. He's looking for atypical causes, too, but we both know where she picked it up."

Wilson sighed. "Look at me." He gripped both shoulders, stopping her restless pacing. "You got her here right away; that's the important thing. You can't undo the past. But she's getting treatment, and House is on the case, and it will be okay." He gave her a hug, which she carefully returned while holding the coffee. "I know this is a bad time to ask, but I have an appointment this afternoon in Middletown at 5:00, so I need to leave about 3:00."

Cuddy pulled away. "In Middletown? You're going to see House's psychiatrist?"

"Right. NOT to fish for info on him," Wilson assured her. "I've just come to the conclusions the last few days that I have major issues myself, that my current therapist isn't helping much, and that whatever happened Saturday, House does respect Jensen professionally."

Cuddy eyed him suspiciously. "Don't you dare screw this up, Wilson. Cross that line one more time, and I don't think you'll get another chance."

"I swear, it's for me. Jensen even insisted that I tell House up front and assure him that confidentiality wouldn't be broken."

"How did House react?"

"Startled, suspicious . . . but he agreed at the end. I think he actually likes Jensen."

Wilson, of course, didn't even know half of it. "I think he does, too. Okay, if House approves, you can take off and go to Middletown."

"I'll keep my cell phone on, though. If anything comes up and you need me, you can call."

"Dr. Cuddy? We're ready to begin."

Wilson saw the unmistakable fear in her eyes as she turned back to the CT room. If he thought he'd actually help much, he'd stay here with her and postpone the appointment, but he knew that as things stood, House was more use to her both medically and personally right now.

(H/C)

The day dragged on, with Rachel still refusing to respond to the antibiotics, Cuddy hovering worriedly at her bedside, and House shut up in his office suite glaring at the whiteboard. Wilson tentatively offered to buy him lunch but was turned down. Cameron came up to check on him later, and he nearly bit her head off, waving a bottle of antibiotics as proof that he was on meds and suggesting that she go try to fix the sick, broken people in the ER or come up with a new theory on Rachel if her complex hadn't had enough fuel for today. The CT was negative for pericardial cyst. In mid afternoon, blood work showed that Rachel's kidney function was starting to worsen.

The team was back in pointless differential, covering the same ground over and over, with House pacing on his obviously worse-than-usual leg. "Come ON, people," he snapped. "What other treatments are there for pneumonia?"

"Antibiotics and supportive care. No matter how many times we say it, it doesn't change. Hopefully the first cultures will be back later on tonight," Taub said.

House stopped at the coffee pot to pour another cup, fighting back a cough. Thirteen eyed him. "If you've been here all night and you'll probably be here tonight, too, why don't you at least take 30 minutes to go home, shower, and change clothes. You'd feel better."

"I feel FINE," House insisted. "I'm not going back to the hotel even briefly until Rachel is stabilized."

"Back to the hotel?" Kutner asked. "What's wrong with your apartment?"

Oh, hell. Yet another sign that his mind wasn't hitting on all cylinders today when he so desperately needed it to. "I moved out briefly while it's being exterminated," House lied quickly.

Exterminated. The puzzle pieces snapped together hard enough to make his already aching head hurt with the recoil. House turned to the team, who were waiting expectantly, knowing that look. "On the latest CBC, does she have neutrophilic leukocytosis on the differential?"

Thirteen checked. "Yes."

Damn. House knew exactly what was wrong with Rachel, and it had nothing at all to do with him. He only wished it had.


	18. Chapter 18

House limped into Rachel's ICU room with the team in his wake. "Cuddy," he said urgently, "when you found Rachel, when you went back to that crack house, was it messy?"

Fatigue had brought an edge of sharpness to her own voice. "No, it was perfectly clean, a model crack house. Martha Stewart would have been proud. Of _course _it was messy."

"Did you see any mice or rats?"

She recognized on delayed reaction that particular tone in his voice. He had his quarry in sight. "I didn't _see_ any, but I wouldn't be surprised. Nothing there won the hygiene award." She turned back to her daughter. "They tried to take care of her, though."

House sighed. "This isn't simple pneumonia. She has hantavirus."

Cuddy looked back up. "I haven't heard of that one."

"Rare. Spread by direct contact with rodents or with their urine and feces."

Kutner whistled. "I've read about it, but I've never seen a case."

"I have," House confirmed. "Ten years ago, right before . . ." he trailed off, but Cuddy knew what had happened 10 years ago. "The chest x-ray on that patient had a very similar pattern. I've been trying to nail that down since last night; I _knew_ I'd seen it before." And it had taken him 20 hours to recover details on an old case. He was losing it. He should have put it together earlier, but he'd been blinded by the red herring of his own sickness, which undoubtedly _was_ simple pneumonia, now improving with treatment. He turned to the team. "Incubation period can be several weeks, and the worsening renal function fits right in. Run a test for hantaviral antigens to confirm."

Cuddy gave a sigh of relief. "But now that we know, we can go ahead and start treatment. What is the antibiotic for hantavirus?"

House walked over to the edge of the bed, looking down at Rachel. "There isn't one," he said softly.

"What?" Cuddy stared at her daughter. "Surely they've found _something_ that helps."

"It's nonresponsive to antibiotics. Mainly it's just a case of supportive care. There are two main things that have helped in some of the cases: Ribavirin and hyperimmune serum. We'll start them both." Kutner stepped away from the bed with the fresh vial of blood. "Go!" House ordered. "Antigen test, and get ribavirn and hyperimmune serum." The team departed briskly, and House turned back to Cuddy.

"So it wasn't your fault," she pointed out.

"Not directly, but I should have had this last night. It's rare, but I've seen it before. I knew I'd seen it before. I just couldn't pin it down." He shook his head, annoyed at the rebellion of his normally file-cabinet mind.

Cuddy had looked back at Rachel. "House, if it's nonresponsive to antibiotics . . . what's the mortality rate?"

He had really hoped she wouldn't ask that question. Even if diagnosed immediately in the ER, this wouldn't have been good news. "For acute pulmonary version like this, it's over 50%."

And Rachel was a premature infant in the first place. Cuddy crumpled up against him, sobbing, and after a minute House awkwardly put his arms around her, feeling totally useless.

(H/C)

House sat in his office later that evening, researching on the internet. Once it was up to the acute phase, the news was discouragingly the same. "An effective treatment for hantavirus is not yet available. Even with intensive therapy, more than half of the diagnosed cases have been fatal." He pushed his reading glasses off and closed his weary eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. He'd hoped that some new breakthrough had been made recently. The trouble with rare diseases is that they don't inhabit the top of the list for research funding.

"Greg." He jumped, snapping upright in his chair. Blythe stood at the doorway to the office with an uncertain smile. "How's the baby?"

"I know what she has now," he said.

"Well, that's good, isn't it?"

He shook his head and winced slightly as it made the headache increase. "Not in this case, no. This is very hard to treat." He leaned back. "We're trying all the things that have worked, but it's really up to Rachel right now. How well she fights it. And she was a premature baby in the first place. All we can do now is wait."

Blythe entered tentatively. "Did you send your students home?"

"They aren't technically students; they're _fellows_," he corrected automatically - and pointlessly. "Yes, I sent them home. Nothing we can really do now, just watch and wait, treat her supportively. I'll stay here tonight again, and so will Cuddy."

Blythe held out a sack that he noticed for the first time. "I brought you some clothes. I thought you might feel better if you took a shower and had clean clothes, at least."

He hated to do anything besides research in circles on the internet, but he'd already realized that they were circles. "I suppose." He stood up and reached for the sack.

Blythe studied him, frowning. "You really are too thin," she scolded. "Have you eaten?"

"Haven't had dinner yet." Or lunch either, come to think of it. He thought he might have had half a doughnut this morning, but he wasn't sure. "But I can't leave, Mom. Cuddy and Rachel might need me."

Blythe firmly picked up her purse again and accompanied him to the elevator. "I'm going to go get us something to eat while you take a shower in the locker room. And I'm not taking no for an answer, Greg."

He rolled his eyes in exasperation. He knew he wouldn't be able to stop her, though. He got off the elevator at the floor with the locker rooms, and she continued on to the lobby.

The hot shower felt beyond good. He had to swipe a trash bag from the janitor's closet to protect his cast, and maneuvering only one-armed was awkward in the slippery cubicles, but the hot spray beating down on him helped the generalized aches and relaxed his angry leg. It also, unfortunately, made him feel sleepy. He couldn't let himself go down for the count yet. Rachel might need him - or, if Rachel was beyond help, Cuddy might need him. He'd never felt more helpless, but if her daughter lost her fight tonight, he wouldn't let Cuddy face it alone while he was knocked out under drugs. He'd already left instructions with the nurse's station to page him immediately, no matter what the time, if her condition started deteriorating. Cameron had brought Cuddy a sandwich a while earlier as he'd been going back to his office, so at least he knew she had eaten.

House finally switched off the shower and carefully exited, unwrapping his arm and getting dressed. That was an improvement. His mother could be annoying, but she did have good ideas at times.

She was back up in the office, with a burger and fries on his side of the desk and a bowl of chili on hers. "Feel better?"

"Yes, Mom. Thanks." He limped over to the desk.

She was giving him that mother look again, and she came around the desk to put a hand on his forehead. "You're flushed - and you're still running a fever."

He shook her hand off. "I just took a long, hot shower, Mom. Makes it seem worse than it is." He picked up the burger. It was just like he liked it, but he wasn't hungry. Under her anxious eye, he forced himself to take a bite anyway.

She sat down again and took a mouthful of chili. "So, can we have five minutes now? I've been trying to wait, but there are so many things we need to talk through." House sighed mentally. "Greg, why on earth didn't you ever say anything? I would have believed you."

He put his burger down. "He said if I ever told anyone, you especially, he'd kill you and make me watch, so it would be my fault you died." His tone was totally flat, more from excess of emotion than from lack of it.

Blythe stared. "He never touched me."

"I know. But if you had heard it over and over, almost daily, from young childhood up, and also had seen what he was capable of yourself, you might have believed him, too. He bragged about killing people as a Marine. You must have heard him. I could imagine him going after you."

Tears welled up and spilled over. "I am so, so sorry, Greg." She saw him flinch and immediate caught the word. "I mean, I apologize."

"Wilson must have told you about that." Credit Wilson with at least one useful transmission of data among the massive flood of broken confidence.

She nodded. "James meant well, Greg. Don't hold this against him." She eyed him. "All those years after you moved out, you still never told."

He studied his burger. "He was with you. I wasn't. I couldn't be sure . . ." He abruptly hit his feet, grabbing his cane, needing to be anywhere other than pinned down by the desk. "Can we not talk about this anymore right now?"

Blythe actually was ready for a break herself. Dear God, what all had he lived with for years? Five minutes alone of details brought _her_ to the edge, and she'd already seen how far the memories could push him. "Okay, Greg. We don't have to talk anymore." She frowned at the desk. "You haven't eaten more than two bites."

He returned to his seat with a sigh and picked up the burger, and something in the way that he choked the next bites down rang a strong bell with her. All those times that he hadn't wanted to eat when his father was there. She'd have to ask him about that . . . some other time. Oh, Greg. She studied him again. "You look so tired."

"I was up and down all night checking on Rachel. Probably will be tonight, too."

"You are on medicine for your virus, though?"

"Yes." Speaking of which, he pulled it out and gulped one down. "I am getting better. It's just been a tough week."

Blythe for once let it go. "So tell me something else. Something good. Hasn't there been anything good that happened lately?"

He hesitated, thinking immediately of Cuddy, but he wasn't sure he was ready to share that, especially when she might be losing her daughter. They needed to work out what was between them before anyone else got a chance to, especially Blythe with all of her mother hen instincts. Still, maybe he could tell her a few things in general. "I heard a good concert last Friday. Great pianist. Do you remember Rachmaninoff's Second Piano Concerto?"

In the conversation that followed, he never managed to forget entirely about Cuddy or about Rachel or about his father, but Blythe at least momentarily did, and the plate was mostly empty when she left him to resumed research.


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19. Note - I am modifying canon in regards to the Social Contract. Not sure when Danny was found, although I think it would have been similar to the timeline of this story, since the Social Contract aired about a month after Greater Good, but for my purposes, he hasn't been located. All those worrying about where we're going, remember that I like happy endings - but this story still has quite a bit to go on it. This rollercoaster isn't done, so don't remove your seatbelt. Many thanks for the comments on Jensen; I like him a lot myself, and unlike House and Co., he is mine.

(H/C)

"Come on in, Dr. Wilson," Jensen said, holding the door to his office open. Wilson, unlike House, stopped to shake hands, which Jensen put down to more than just lack of physical disability. Wilson also took a much more cursory glance around the office and then picked a chair based not on comfort but on proximity to the desk. Jensen moved around the desk and sat down to face him. "Before we begin, I do need your assurance that you discussed your upcoming appointment with Dr. House."

Wilson nodded. "I talked to House this morning." Jensen was relieved to hear it in more ways than one. He was actually rather concerned about House, especially since he had heard not a word from him since House had left his office late yesterday morning. He couldn't help wondering how the initial encounter with House's mother had gone. With some patients, he would have called or at least left a message of good thoughts, but he sensed that this approach would not go over well with House. Jensen had clearly stated that House could call him any time, but House definitely needed to be the initiator of all therapeutic contact. He'd been more stable both physically and mentally when he left yesterday than when he had arrived to break into the office at 5:00 a.m., but Jensen still wondered how the evening had gone for him.

"What did he say?" Jensen asked.

"He was suspicious at first, but he did listen to me, and then he told me to go ahead but if I blew it, that would be my last chance." Wilson gave a small sigh of relief. "I had actually been afraid that I'd already used up my last chance."

Clearly Wilson, unlike House, would not require sheep-dogging to get to the main issue. "So what can I help you with, Dr. Wilson?"

"I manage people, make decisions for them, decide what they need. I'd never really realized how much until this last weekend, and then I got to looking back . . . it's been a consistent problem."

"What happened this last weekend?"

"I . . . look, this works both ways, right? The confidentiality?"

"Certainly. I won't discuss your issues with him any more than I'll discuss his with you."

"That's not what I was afraid of." Wilson's hands flexed nervously. "I'm not fishing for information on him, but I have no idea what all he's told you, and I have to tell you a little bit just to make it clear what I did. If this is news to you, don't tell him I told you about it. Okay?"

Jensen firmly resisted temptation to throw Wilson a bone here and skip the worry, since he already knew at least House's version of the weekend, but he couldn't do it. He was actually pleased that Wilson apparently now at least had such a consciousness of his friend's privacy. "I think I can agree to that purely as limited essential background, but if I think you're getting more into talking about him than your own problems, I will refuse to participate. We are here to discuss you."

"Right. Well, um, I found out just in the last two weeks, unintentionally, that House was severely abused throughout childhood by his father." Jensen kept his face absolutely blank. "House's mother was coming through Princeton last Saturday and wanted to see him, but he didn't think he could talk to her right now even socially while he was so much on edge, so he dodged, as usual."

Jensen noted Wilson's own dodge as he approached the crux of the matter. "We're talking about your actions this weekend, not his typical ones. Does whether or not he might attempt to avoid confrontation figure into your issues?" Wilson looked startled, then analytical. "Let me phrase it another way. Do you have a history of managing people and making decisions for them even at times when they were not engaged in avoiding confrontation with third parties?"

Wilson looked down at his French patent leathers, remembering lying to House about the Addison's patient, starting him on antidepressants, giving him such skepticism on his leg. "Yes," he admitted.

"So whether Dr. House wanting to avoid his mother this weekend was typical for him or not, your subsequent actions were still typical for you?"

Wilson gave a sheepish grin. "You're good."

"Thank you. Now, what did _you_ do this weekend, regardless of what your friend was or was not doing?"

"I called his mother to set up a lunch without his knowledge while he was gone, and I revealed the abuse to her."

"Why?" Dr. Jensen leaned forward a bit over his desk, extremely interested in this answer.

"She . . . she needed to know. She should have known. She had to have been blind not to have known."

"How long have you known your friend, Dr. Wilson?"

"Well over a decade."

"Did you know?"

Wilson looked down. "Never suspected it at all."

"Do you think you should have known? Do you think you were blind not to have known?"

Wilson pulled out a pen from his pocket, just to give his hands something to hold. "Yes. But I'm not his mother."

"True. But do you think that bringing her into knowledge might have been a subconsious way to relieve some of your own guilt by finding someone whose guilt was greater?"

"Maybe. It sure didn't wind up making me feel less guilty, though."

More there than just guilt transference. "How long beforehand had you intended to reveal his secret to his mother?"

Wilson was looking more uncomfortable by the minute. "Since the evening I discovered she was coming through Princeton. About a week and a half prior to Saturday."

"Before you knew that your friend intended to avoid seeing her at all?"

"Yes."

"So even if he had spent time with his mother that weekend, you would have sought out a time to tell her yourself?"

Wilson sighed. "Yes. I really thought she needed to know."

No, that's not your reason, Jensen thought. "Had you thought of his mother since your discovery but before you realized she would be visiting?"

"Yes."

"Multiple times?"

"Yes."

"On a daily basis?"

Wilson's eyes dropped to his lap, then came back up to meet Jensen's. "Several times a day."

"And what was your primary emotion when you thought of her?"

"Anger. She should have known. She should have been there. It was inexcusable to leave him alone in that." His speech was getting a bit more pressured.

Jensen thought he had it now. He rephrased as an assumed question. "In what in the past has your family abandoned you?"

Wilson stared. "No wonder House likes you," he said softly. Jensen gave him a brief smile but left the question hanging out there in mid air, waiting. "I, um, had a brother. He had schizophrenia. I was always the one who had to deal with him, who had to listen to him, who had to talk him down, who had to convince him to take his meds."

"Until . . . "

"I went off to med school. He still called, every night, talked for hours, even though I was away. It was like I was the only family member he had. One night, I was trying to study for something important, and he was going on and on, and I hung up on him and went to the library."

"What happened to him?" Jensen could already tell something had.

"My Mom called me and told me the next day he had run away - without his meds. So he wouldn't even be stable enough to return if he wanted to. I've been looking for him since for years."

"Did your mother blame you for his running away?"

'"Of course! I'd always been the one to look after him."

"So the fact that your friend's mother was not there for him reminded you of how your family was not there for you."

Wilson hesitated. "I hadn't thought of it before, but I guess so. That makes sense."

"You also, I dare say, felt that it was your responsibility to take care of your friend and help him deal with his abuse issues, and you maybe wanted to divide that load of responsibility with his mother, who should have carried some of it?"

Wilson sighed. "I swear, I did not think she would demand to talk to him right away. I figured she'd run off to start processing on her own, like he would have done."

"So you expected her, maybe even wanted her to feel guilty, responsible, and impotent all at once for a while? As you have since your brother ran away?"

Wilson considered it. "You really are good. That's probably at least part of it."

Jensen decided to leave that one to cook for a while. "However, you said you had a _history_ of making other people's decisions for them. Certainly I'd say dereliction of family duties is one of your buttons." Wilson flinched, remembering the funeral fiasco. "What did you just think of? Your guilt index doubled there."

"Several months ago, House's father died. He didn't want to go to the funeral, and Cuddy and I thought he was just being an antisocial jerk as usual. His mother wanted him to deliver a eulogy, and House was refusing to even attend, so we arranged to drug and kidnap him and take him anyway."

Jensen's well-trained impassive features were getting a workout today. "Who is Cuddy?" he asked, although he already thought he knew and was fascinated to get a name to peg to the identity of the boss whom House never referred to in his sessions by name.

"Dean of Medicine, our boss. So she drugged House, and we got him into my car. We were already well on the way when he woke up."

"Whose idea specifically was drugging him?"

Wilson flinched. "Mine. But she did it, because he would have been suspicious of me."

"Why?"

"I hadn't spoken to him for several months and had told him our friendship was over."

"Why? Did you truly want it to be?"

"No. I was grieving. My girlfriend had died, and House was sort of responsible, although he nearly killed himself trying to save her, too, but I couldn't face losing anybody else just then. It's a long story."

"So even though you had broken off relations with your friend, you still kidnapped him to take him to his father's funeral? Just to be clear, at that point you had no idea of any reason for tension between him and his father?"

Wilson shook his head. "I thought he was just avoiding family responsibilities and feelings," he said bitterly. "Which, as you just pointed out, is a big button with me." Obviously a lot of guilt tied up in there now.

"Did you express that opinion to him then?"

"Several times," Wilson moaned. "In fact, he tried to talk to me about his father, and I shut him down every time. He said recently that he was trying to tell me then about the abuse, but I made it clear I didn't want to listen to him." He shook his head. "Damn, how blind could I have been? How could he be that trusting? I'd just kidnapped him, after telling him he was never a friend at all, and yet he was trying to actually talk to me."

Jensen was getting progressively more fascinated with his other patient. "You would have expected unforgiveness?"

"Of course! Or at least more time delay. Not actually being glad to see me, which he was, even though I'd kidnapped him."

"You told me last night that you didn't think he was speaking to you. Apparently from your opening comments you were wrong in that assumption, as well."

Wilson considered it. "I suppose so. He sure wasn't happy with me, but he wasn't refusing to talk."

"Do you think you deserve forgiveness from your brother, Dr. Wilson?"

Wilson swallowed. "What's the point in even speculating on that? He'd never be mentally sound enough at this stage for it to happen, even if we found him. He's probably dead by now."

"Think about it," Jensen advised, and then changed subject to give Wilson space to do just that. "What are your other 'buttons,' as you put it, besides unfulfilled family obligations? When are you most tempted to interfere and make decisions for people?"

Wilson took a minute to think. "Well, sometimes House absolutely begs it physically. He gets so wrapped up and focused on a case or something else that has his attention, he can literally forget to eat." Jensen, remembering just yesterday, could well believe it. "He can pull multiple all-nighters at the hospital on a case until somebody makes him leave. Even now, I buy his lunch most days, just to make sure he eats. Actually, I started bringing him food and reminding him to eat back 10 years ago after his leg surgery, because he didn't want to eat at all then. Turns out, he has memories of his father tied up in eating, too, so the more stressed out and emotionally upset he gets, the less appetite he has. I think he really would have starved without noticing it after his leg, while he was so torn up inside over what had happened. Since then, me supplying him with food has become a pattern."

"Do you think you see him as a surrogate for your brother, someone who needs your care and, more important, is available and will accept it?"

"No. Well . . . not totally. Not really. Probably not."

"Which of those answers do you think is the true one, Dr. Wilson?"

"It's not that simple. He's really a good friend. A lot of people in the hospital probably wonder what on earth I get out of that friendship, but it isn't just a surrogate for my brother. House isn't just a surrogate for anything. He's unique. We have a strange friendship, but it works, and I get as much out of it as he does, actually. He can be amazingly supportive, in his own way."

"Has he ever attempted to care physically for you, as you do for him, and did you allow that?"

"Kind of. He usually expresses care and sympathy by making a joke, distracting me. There was once, though, that he thought I was on antidepressants and reacting badly to them, so he gave me coffee dosed with amphetamines to compensate. The funny thing was, I'd already been slipping him antidepressants without his knowledge for a few weeks. He was furious when he worked it out."

Jensen was definitely giving his impassivity a workout today. "Were you furious with him?"

"Yes . . . but really, it did show that he cared."

"So neglect of family responsibility and need for physical care are two triggers for you. What are others?"

Wilson considered. "I'd . . . have to think about it."

"Have you meddled in other people's lives as well as in your friend's?"

"Yes. Maybe not as much, since I've known him so long, but definitely yes."

"Under what circumstances?"

"Usually with patients, with anybody at the hospital who is having a rough time . . . House jokes that I thrive off neediness."

Wilson's cell phone beeped just then, and he pulled it out to look at it. It was a text message from Cuddy. "Rachel has hantavirus. Not good news, but House is on it." He sighed and raised his eyes to meet Jensen's curious but impassive ones. "Message from Cuddy. Her daughter got quite sick last night. House has been on the case since. He's found the answer now, but apparently, she isn't out of the woods yet."

That at least explained House's failure to communicate, especially when combined both with Wilson's observations of how focused he could get on a case and with his clear feelings for Cuddy. "I hope she pulls through," Jensen said sincerely. He glanced at his watch. "Well, Dr. Wilson, we've had quite a valuable first session here, I think. I have two assignments for you before next time."

"Homework?" Wilson gave him a smile.

"In a way. First, I want you to try to think up other triggers that compel you to make others' decisions for them." Wilson was nodding, seing the point of that one, but his nod froze a second later. "Second, I would like you to write a letter to your brother."

"My brother? What's the point of that? He'll never read it."

"But you will." Jensen was firm.

Wilson sighed and pulled out his organizer to make another appointment and also carefully list the assignments. Jensen stood up and extended his hand, and Wilson shook it and turned to go but then paused on the way out. "Dr. Jensen, do you think House can forgive me for this?"

Jensen smiled at him. "Think about your conversation with him today, and answer your own question. That's not to say that I don't think you need to make some changes. It was a pleasure meeting you, Dr. Wilson."

"And you." Wilson exited the office, feeling wrung out by that session - but also like he had stepped out of a shower, maybe at least starting to feel cleansed.


	20. Chapter 20

House slipped into Rachel's room. It was midnight, and he had jolted himself awake from a restless 2-hour nap a few minutes previously. He tiptoed past Cuddy, who was asleep in the armchair but with both hands protectively wrapped around Rachel's small fist. House stood by the bed looking at the infant.

Rachel was definitely critically ill, but she at least had not deteriorated further after the ribavirin and the hyperimmune serum had been started. She lay absolutely still, heavily sedated for the ventilator, but he could almost sense the fight in her. For such a small, underprepared body, she had a large spirit.

He wondered suddenly when she had become Rachel to him. All the past few weeks since Cuddy had adopted her, House had called her a variety of things ranging from Mowgli to the sprog, but somehow in the last few days, she had metamorphosed into Rachel, like a tawdry, common caterpillar suddenly emerging as a butterfly with its own distinct and beautiful pattern. For the first time, he could start to see individual characteristics beyond just generic baby. Holding her and feeding her Monday morning hadn't twisted him up inside into mushy goo, but it hadn't been that bad, either, and her eyes had returned his own look and hadn't been fearful or accusing or unwilling to see him. She had simply looked at him, as if she did see him and still didn't mind. The thought of being any sort of paternal figure to a child had always scared the hell out of him and still did, truthfully. Maybe he could talk about it sometime with Jensen. Maybe he could talk about it sometime with Cuddy. If Rachel was still around later to even be talked about . . .

"Come on, Rachel," he urged her softly. "You've got to keep fighting." He picked up her free hand, the one Cuddy didn't have trapped, and traced the fingers. "You haven't even learned to play the piano yet."

Cuddy stirred and opened her eyes. "House? Anything wrong?"

He shook his head while turning to face her and tripped himself into coughing again. "No change," he said. "I wish I had more suggestions, but she's putting up a hell of a fight."

Cuddy frowned slightly, studying him in the dimmed lights of the room. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. It's just been a long night last night and tonight, that's all. And YES, I'm taking the antibiotics." He definitely remembered taking his evening dose while having the burger with Blythe.

She hesitated, not quite convinced. "You ought to get some rest. You've been sick yourself."

"I have been. I've slept in my office, last night and even already tonight."

"We could bring another chair in here where you could keep an eye on her better."

No way. At least in his office, his nightmares wouldn't be a public event. He wasn't going to remind Cuddy of his sleeping problems or risk waking her up from her own catnaps by trying to sleep here at this point. She had plenty to worry about right now without wasting focus on him; she was consumed with Rachel, as she should be. "I have the most comfortable chair in the hospital, remember? Being a cripple does come with a few perks. I'm keeping my pager with me all the time. I'll be right here if she needs me." He looked pointedly at the chair she had had brought in. "You need some rest yourself."

"I'm getting some." It was the truth, though she still felt exhausted, wrung out with worry over Rachel and also with a nagging feeling underneath that that she was forgetting things while she was too tired and preoccupied to think of them. She half smiled, almost hearing House accusing her of an administrator complex, afraid her hospital wouldn't run when she wasn't personally on top of it all. "I'm fine, House. I've actually gotten several hours of sleep here and there. Stiff neck from the chair, but that's all right. I'm not leaving until she's out of the woods."

"Neither am I," he said, releasing Rachel's hand and limping around behind the chair. He started trying to massage the offending neck one-handed, cursing again the difficulties the cast added to everything. Cuddy leaned back into his hand, appreciating the effort. "I can't do it right . . ." he apologized, frustrated.

"You're doing better than you think you are." She flinched as he hit a particularly sore spot, then relaxed as he coaxed it out with his long, sensitive, dextrous musician's fingers.

She had always loved his hands.

"House?"

"Hmm?"

"The fact that she hasn't kept getting worse . . . that's good, isn't it?"

He hated this. She wanted comfort and reassurance, and he inhabited the sterile world of medical facts. "It could be," he said, hating himself for not being able to give her more, for not being able to tell her it would be all right.

"But . . ."

Damn. She had heard the but implied. "This disease doesn't always progress steadily anyway. It's been known to take fits and starts and pause in between." He looked over at the baby. "I'll say this, Rachel is really trying. She's got a lot of spirit in that little body."

Cuddy twisted around to look over the back of the chair at him. "You're calling her Rachel."

"Yes. It's pretty. I might even learn to like it someday." He sighed. "Wonder if she'd ever like my name, though, or hate me. If she even lives for the chance to decide, which she might not." He felt Cuddy flinch on his end statement and mentally smacked himself. He'd said the wrong thing, yet again. Why couldn't he filter out speech like most people? "I'm sorry," he said, deliberately choosing the phrase that best expressed total helplessness. Sorry, after all, didn't really make any difference.

He didn't realize he had stopped the massage and physically as well as mentally pulled away until Cuddy gripped his casted arm to pull him back. She actually pulled him off balance a bit, which neither of them was expecting, and he wavered for a second before getting his feet steadily under him again. "House," she said, "don't ever tell me you're sorry."

He looked at her in surprise. "It doesn't make any difference to you what word I use."

"But it does to you. You're punishing yourself by it, just to prove to yourself how inadequate you feel." She still had his casted arm and brushed the back of his protruding fingers lightly. "Yes, you're a jerk at times, but as I just said, you're doing better than you think you are. And when you are a jerk, apologize. Don't tell me you're sorry. I want you to apologize."

He backed away slightly, and she hung doggedly onto his cast. He stopped, afraid of losing his balance again. "Apologize to me, damn it," she insisted.

"I . . . apologize," he mumbled.

"Speak up. I didn't hear you." She realized instantly that that had been the wrong thing to say when she heard the sharp intake of his breath. His eyes lost focus, and he jerked back hard enough that she immediately let go, afraid that hanging on would make things worse. He stumbled and caught himself against Rachel's bed, turning away from Cuddy and looking down at the infant as he tried to gather his ragged thoughts and remind himself that it was all in the past. He had practically heard her words in his father's voice, as he had so many times in childhood. _Speak up when you speak to me, boy. I didn't hear you._ He leaned against the bed, forcing his heart rate to slow down. He was pathetic. Couldn't even apologize to her without his mind abruptly jumping back 40 years when she said something he wasn't expecting.

Cuddy waited until his breathing was fairly even again - though still a bit fast - and then stood, making sure to scrape the chair leg slightly, to make some sound as she got up. She came up behind him and wrapped both arms around him, hugging him while he still looked away from her. "I apologize," she said softly.

He let out a shuddering sigh that she felt travel through his whole body. "I hate this," he said.

"I know. Did he say that a lot?" she asked tentatively.

House pulled totally away from her, retreating to the far side of the bed, and she let him go. His voice was agitated now. "It was like reporting to a superior officer. If I didn't use a correct military tone, and call him sir, and thank him, he'd just get madder."

"Thank him?" Surely he didn't mean for . . . "You mean after he would do . . . something, you had to thank him for it?"

His breathing was accelerating again. "YES. Because it would make me stronger, he said. Discipline was good because it drove out the weakness. Someday if he ever managed to make me strong, I would appreciate what he'd done." He was clinging to the edge of Rachel's cot so tightly that his knuckles stood out white. "That bastard never knew what strength was. Nothing he did was strength. THAT'S strength." He was nearly at a shout now, nodding toward Rachel. "Putting up a battle against something when you're against long odds and doggedly hanging in there. That's strength. Not killing people or trying to squash them like bugs. I don't care how many damn medals he had; he had NO IDEA of what strength is. He didn't have it. She does." He broke off there, his breathing coming in ragged gasps interspersed with an occasional choked-back cough or two. Cuddy stood quietly, just giving him space, not trying to touch him now, letting him cool down some before she finally spoke.

"You have it, too, House." His look was both dubious and longing. "You held up, and you survived it, against incredibly long odds. He didn't break you. He did NOT break you, House. And that's strength, too. WHEN Rachel gets better, when she's older, and she says your name, it will be with respect, not out of fear but because she knows you merit it."

The monitor screen gave a beep just then, and both of them immediately switched into medical mode, checking, assessing. Her pulse oximetry had dropped a point. House made a slight adjustment to the ventilator settings, and it went back up. He checked all the lines and monitor leads, his steady, competent fingers working over her, totally focused on the case now. "Hang in there, Rachel," he urged her.

Cuddy had picked up Rachel's hand again, once more focused on her daughter. She sensed, too, that House was one short step away from overload right now; she had pushed him enough, perhaps too much, on a night when both of them were far too tired to be talking about the past. So there was no more conversation between them, just long minutes measured off by the monitor rhythms, and when Cuddy's rebellious eyelids drifted back shut, he was still there, leaning against the bed but determination in every line, like a medical sentinel guarding the room against Death itself.


	21. Chapter 21

House stood in Rachel's private room - or rather propped himself against her bed, the walls, and Cuddy's chair in turn. His leg was absolutely screaming, and every now and then, he took a turn of the room to stretch it out, but he didn't dare sit down. He was afraid he'd fall asleep as soon as he did, and not only did he dread the awaiting nightmares, he had a very strong feeling at the moment that he needed to be here. He couldn't define it. He always had hated things he couldn't define. Still, this was like the "danger approaching" music that starts in a movie even before the action ramps up. He felt like something was about to happen.

He stiffly paced the room again and stopped, looking at Cuddy. She looked like a guardian angel, sleeping there beside her daughter, tiny hand still gripped firmly in her own. Such devotion and loyalty. He knew how much she had wanted a child. Part of him had always been a bit hurt that she had never asked him to be her sperm donor, but he was, deep down, glad for her. For her and Rachel both.

The monitors screeched behind him, and House turned too quickly and almost fell over as his leg rebelled. He ignored it, the only message that mattered the one spelled out on the screen. She had flatlined. House hit the button urgently, although they should already be coming, and then he grabbed the infant crash cart, fumbling as he tried to apply the gel to the paddles with one hand in a cast.

Cuddy came bolting straight up out of the chair. "House?" And finally, here came the nurses. Frustrated and crippled, House surrendered to those who had two good hands at the moment, and he backed away, pulling Cuddy back with him, giving them room to work. Her hand tightened almost painfully around his fingers as each jolt went through the tiny body. Once, twice, and then the monitor reawoke to life, the steady blip running across the screen. The nurses started getting everything set back up. Cuddy stood silently beside him throughout it, but she had a death grip on his hand.

Finally, it was over, everything was stable if critical again, and the nurses left. Cuddy gave out a shuddering sob. "Oh God, House. She could die. She nearly did die." She crumpled against him, and he stood feeling helpless because he could not tell her it wasn't true.

(H/C)

Wilson turned the corner into the room early the next morning and skidded to a halt at the sight of House standing there. Cuddy was asleep again but still had tear tracks dried on her face. House had himself propped against the wall, watching Rachel closely, and he looked like without the wall's support and even with it, he was close to simply falling over. "Is she okay?" Wilson asked softly.

"Rachel coded at 1:30. Two defibrillations brought her back. No change since." House looked down at Cuddy. "She's worn out."

Wilson studied his friend. "Are you okay? You look like you're about to collapse."

House carefully pried himself off the wall and wavered for a minute, and Wilson reached out to steady him. "I was here most of the night. I'm going up to my office for a nap, but page me if anything, and I mean _anything_ happens." He took a step, and his leg nearly buckled. He had been on his feet, with assorted props, for over six hours.

Wilson caught him again. "House?"

"Give me a minute." House carefully started around the room, amazingly letting Wilson come along with him as a more substantial cane, and gradually the leg at least resigned itself to hold up, although he could feel it quivering. "How was your appointment last night?"

"Interesting. Jensen is good. And we did talk about me. He wouldn't even tell me what happened in your session with him."

He apparently hadn't even mentioned that House's sessions with him to date had been plural. House was satisfied for the moment, though still a bit wary. He pulled away slightly, testing the leg. "Okay, I think I'm good. Call me if anything important comes up. Not otherwise." He would send a text saying the same to the team.

Wilson watched his friend stiffly hobble out of the room. House had honestly stayed in this room, on his feet, since 1:30? Wilson looked from House's back to Cuddy. "You two have to get together," he told her softly. "I think you're the only person I know as stubborn as he is."

(H/C)

Up in his office, House gulped down some pain meds, locked the doors, drew the blinds, and texted the team. Then he nearly collapsed into the Eames chair. He had to get a little rest to stay functional, but he knew his internal alarm clock would not let him down. Two hours, just enough to get him going again, and after the obligatory nightmare woke him up, he'd do more research on hantavirus. Somewhere out there, there had to be another treatment he didn't know about.

(H/C)

By the time Wilson came up at noon and cautiously peered into the office, not intending to wake House up if he was sleeping, House was settled firmly at his desk in front of the computer. Wilson tapped and entered. "Want to go to lunch?"

"No," House replied. His tone wasn't annoyed, just matter of fact. His attention was totally on the websites he was scanning.

The oncologist came over for a closer look at his friend. "Did you get some sleep?"

"Yes." House gave a frustrated sigh and clicked to the next page.

"Boy, this conversation is wearing out my vocabulary." Wilson hoped to at least get an acknowledgment of the attempt at humor from his friend, but there was nothing. House's mind was almost inhabiting the computer instead of his body at the moment. "I could bring you lunch from the cafeteria. You missed breakfast. Want me to bring you a sandwich?"

House shrugged. He not only wasn't hungry, but his stomach was hurting slightly, probably reacting against its steady diet so far today of coffee. He knew Wilson, like a terrier at a rat hole, wouldn't leave him alone and go away without something to show for it, though. "You can if you want to," he said.

Wilson had just started to turn away when House's beeper went off, evoking the most life he'd seen from his friend yet. House pounced on it like a cat, pulling it up instantly to eye level. "Rachel."

Wilson stopped. "Did she code again?"

House gave him a rare half smile. "Her temperature is dropping."

(H/C)

From that point through the afternoon, Rachel's condition improved steadily. Temperature down, blood pressure up. Kidney function was improving. House and Simmons both recommended keeping her on the ventilator at least for another night, giving her lungs a break while the pneumonia decreased, but her chest x-ray was also getting better. Wilson delivered a late lunch for both House and Cuddy and stood there annoyingly to make sure they ate it, although Cuddy once she got started was hungry. Blythe turned up in mid afternoon to flutter around the edges but was unable to convince her son to leave just yet, although he said he'd have breakfast with her tomorrow if Rachel kept improving.

Around 8:00 that night, House and Cuddy stood side by side in Rachel's room. "You're winning, Rachel," House told her. "You're beating this. Just keep it up."

Cuddy looked at the monitors, much more stable than last night. "She is strong."

"Yes, she is." House choked back a cough.

Cuddy studied him for the first time thoroughly that day, having been lost in the emotional flood of anxiety and then relief until then. She frowned. "House, seriously, you look like death warmed over. Are you sure you're getting better?"

He brushed off the concern. "It's just been a long week. I hate to be the one to tell you, but you've looked better yourself. The twins seem kind of tired."

Cuddy abruptly put two and two together, feeling like she should have done so a few days ago. "You haven't been taking the sleeping pill since Rachel got sick, have you?" He looked away, his silence giving assent. "House! You were sick yourself last weekend, quite sick Sunday night. You can't just postpone sleep for days when you weren't totally well to begin with."

"I have gotten some," he insisted.

"Not worth having, I'll bet," she said. At least that explained why he had been looking progressively worse this week every time she stopped in her Rachel worry long enough to take a good look at him. He was running himself into the ground, substituting his current disrupted cycle of nightmares for rest. That was, when he even got as much as the nightmares allowed him. She knew he had been in this room most of the night. That was probably why he had doggedly refused another chair, refusing to sit down lest he drop off, afraid to disturb her, afraid to distract her. Damn it, House . . .

"I've pulled all nighters lots of times on cases. It's nothing new."

"Not when you're just getting over pneumonia. You HAVE been taking the antibiotics, right?"

"YES!" he snapped. "I'm taking the antibiotics." He pulled the bottle out as proof. "But the zolpidem works too well on me. If Rachel had needed something . . . if you had needed something . . ."

"I need YOU to stop acting like an idiot." She took a deep breath. "House, I understand why you did it. Part of me even appreciates it. But now that she's improving and stable, you really need a good, solid night's sleep tonight."

"So do you," he insisted stubbornly.

"I'm not leaving her yet." Cuddy had a lifetime of maternal instinct saved up for her daughter, and it was singing through her veins at full volume right now. Rachel was getting better now, but she had been so sick . . . Cuddy was afraid to leave completely just yet.

"Neither am I," he insisted.

They stared at each other, blue-gray and ice-blue locked. And then, as if suddenly each seeing the other's exhaustion, they both deflated and looked away. "I'll have a cot brought in here for me if you'll actually spend the entire night tonight in your office chair instead of getting up every 2 hours or staying on your feet down here half the night," she offered.

He considered, then nodded. "Deal."

She exited the room, finding a janitor. "Mike, could you bring a cot into this room for me, please?"

"Sure thing, Dr. Cuddy." The janitor disappeared, and Cuddy turned back to House.

"YOU get up to your office and get some sleep, and I don't want to see you all night."

He gave her a tired smile. "Your wish is my command, mistress. But wake me up, whatever it takes, if anything happens."

"I will. Now scram." He headed toward the elevators, and Cuddy watched his retreat. Limp worse than usual, his foot almost dragging, leaning heavily on the cane, shoulders slumped. You could take the bags under his eyes on a camping trip. Lack of rest explained everything. Why hadn't she noticed earlier that he wasn't sleeping? Part of her was touched at his sacrifice for Rachel, but the other part of her wanted to smack him upside the head. Idiot. He was just getting well, had still needed extra rest. At least she'd noticed now so she could keep tabs and he could really finish getting well. Sound sleep was what he needed. The cot was brought in, and she gave a last loving brush of Rachel's cheek, a last look at the monitors. "Good night, Rachel," she said, and lay down, her body immediately informing her that she hadn't actually gotten in a bed of any sort most of the week herself. Sleep would help all of them, especially House. "Good night, House," she added as her thoughts pulled her under to sweet dreams of the future.

(H/C)

Up in his office, House stretched out with a weary groan in the Eames chair, having locked the office and drawn the blinds. His stomach was still hurting somewhat, and he didn't feel like eating, but he took the pain meds and an antibiotic. The usual throbbing pain in his leg had expanded to encompass most of his body, and it was hard to think of a part that didn't hurt. The zolpidem bottle was lined up along with the others on the shelf, but he left that one unopened. If Rachel by any chance had a reversal and needed him tonight, he'd be available. He would get sleep, in a day or two, but he had to hold out for her a little longer. His body seemed to be annoyingly reminding him how long it had been since a med school schedule, but he could take it for another night or so. Rachel deserved it. "Good night, Cuddy," he said, but he put off closing his burning eyes as long as he could.

He was very glad that she had phrased the proposed deal as she had.


	22. Chapter 22

House limped into Rachel's room early the next morning. He had just taken a shower in the locker room and put on clean clothes that his mother had brought yesterday, and he was hoping that being cleaned up would improve his appearance enough that Cuddy would believe he had had some sleep.

Which he had - as little as he could get, trying to limit the number of nightmares as far as possible. But he had dutifully stayed in the Eames chair all night.

Cuddy was already up and looking still tired but better herself. She looked up as House entered. "Good morning! Did you get some rest?"

"Didn't leave the chair all night," House replied. "What about you?"

"It was as good a night as you can get on a cot." She frowned in thought as she looked at him. "You still look pretty worn out."

"It's just going to take a while to get over the week. You're still tired yourself, aren't you?"

She nodded, accepting it, and turned back to Rachel. "Everything's been stable and improving all night. I just read her chart notes."

House studied the monitors. "Let's get a new chest x-ray, and if that shows substantial improvement, we can try taking her off the vent." He put in an order for a stat x-ray, then turned to Cuddy. "I have an appointment in Middletown late this afternoon. Do you want me to cancel?"

"No," she said. "She's stable, doing a lot better. Go on." She studied him. "In fact, why don't you take the whole day off and try to get a little more rest before then? You've been living here this week, without real sleep, and you really _were_ sick last weekend."

House debated. He hated to leave, but Rachel was stable, had been improving steadily for over 12 hours now, and he was getting tired of hearing the same repeated chorus from everybody. He wasn't looking forward to Wilson's lecture when he found out House had been skipping the zolpidem, either. "Let's see how she comes off the vent. If that works, I'll go."

"Jensen is helping, then?"

He nodded. "He's . . . interesting. Tell you later," he dodged, looking over her shoulder, and she just had time to turn around before she was overwhelmed by Blythe, who wrapped her in a bear hug, then switched to do the same with her son, who had been trying to retreat somewhat behind Cuddy. Cuddy had to smile at House's pained look at her over his mother's shoulder. "Good MORNING! She's still getting better? Everything's better now?"

"She was stable all night. I think we're past the crisis," House said. Blythe released him and stepped back. Here it came.

"Greg, are you okay? You look worn out - and you feel warm." She started to reach for his forehead, and he backed away.

"I just took a hot shower, Mom. Spent a long time in there letting it work on my leg. And yes, I'm fine, just tired. It's been a long week." Why wouldn't the world leave him alone on this?

"He hasn't gotten much sleep this week," Cuddy said pointedly, with a private exasperated edge in her tone just for him. "I was just telling him he needed to take the day off and get some more rest before he has an appointment late this afternoon."

"Oh, that's a wonderful idea. You can come back to the apartment." Blythe read his expression. "Oh, I'll leave. I'll go to a mall - or maybe drive to Philadelphia and see some of the sights there. Kind of a substitute vacation. I wouldn't be in your hair, so you can get some sleep all day. I know you hate sleeping when anybody's around."

House relaxed a fraction. "You really didn't have to cancel your vacation, Mom."

"Yes, I did," she insisted. "But I'll leave you alone for today. You really do look exhausted. You did promise me breakfast, though."

House rolled his eyes, and Cuddy grinned at him over Blythe's shoulder. "Oh, I think that's a _great_ idea, Blythe. You can take him to breakfast and make sure he eats, and then he can sleep the rest of the day. Have you ever seen Independence Hall? The Liberty Bell?"

Blythe immediately followed her into a discussion of the sights of Philadelphia, and House tuned them out and turned back to study Rachel. She was looking much better, color better, even aside from the proof of the monitors. Such a fight she'd put up. "You did it, kid," he said softly, proudly. He suddenly had his own ideas for what to do today.

(H/C)

Rachel's chest x-ray looked much better, and after she was successfully extubated, Cuddy chased House and Blythe out, wishing them both a good (and mostly separate, she thought) day. Shortly thereafter, they were back in his apartment as his mother cooked pancakes. Hers weren't as good as Wilson's but were not at all bad, but House had no appetite. His stomach was still hurting slightly, too.

Blythe watched him choke down another disinterested bite. "You really need to eat more, Greg. You're too thin."

"I will, Mom." He picked up another bite. "You know I'm never that hungry when a lot is going on. With Rachel improving, it will get better from here."

She studied him. "Every time that I'd ever been gone a day or two, or even one meal, when I came back, you didn't want to eat. Did your father do something to you with food?"

House sighed and wished the world would just go away at the moment, especially his mother and anybody who wanted to lecture him about how tired he was. "He would mess it up, deliberately. Too much spices, lots of pepper. Other things. Made me eat it to toughen me up." He put down his fork. "And do we really have to talk about that while I'm eating? It doesn't help."

Blythe had been listening in horror, but she immediately saw that this might not be the best topic at the moment. "Oh, I'm sorry, Greg." He flinched. "I mean, I apologize. Really. I understand. We won't talk about what he did to the food while you eat." She looked pointedly at his plate. "Go ahead and finish that, dear. You need it."

He picked his fork back up. He didn't exactly feel nauseated, but his stomach wasn't quite at rest, either. He forced down another bite.

"Um . . .how much is there?" Blythe asked tentatively.

"Enough for a few year's worth at 5 minutes at a time," he snapped, and then sighed. "It's just - we can't fix everything in a few days. I know you want to, but we can't."

She was still looking startled at his answer. "Okay, Greg. It's okay. I'll try not to push." She tried to switch subjects. "Does your broken wrist hurt?"

"Not any more." Not usually. Just about everything was hurting to some extent at the moment, in spite of all the pain meds, which he had taken as soon as he woke up from his final nightmare this morning. "It was a simple break. It will be okay."

She studied him. "You get to going too fast sometimes. Just walking around or when you're on a case. I'm sure that's how you fell. Please try to take better care of yourself."

House gritted his teeth and pushed his mostly empty plate away. "I am, Mom. I think I'll go lie down for a while. I won't be around tonight; I've got an appointment out of town late this afternoon." And when he returned, he'd go to the motel, not here. He had officially hit his quota on his mother for today.

"Okay, Greg. I'll just do the dishes, and then I'll leave you alone for today so you can rest." She fluttered up and started a bustling clatter in the kitchen, and House retreated to his room, lying down in his bed, which felt refreshingly familiar and reminded his aching body that he hadn't seen it since last Friday, exactly a week ago. It smelled like his mother, though. It smelled like this week. Not like last week, not like Cuddy. He lay there almost propping his eyes open, waiting for the clatter to decrease, waiting for the sound of the door. When it came, he sat up and gave it 5 minutes. Then he retreated to the bathroom, running the tub full of hot water. He'd try to soak some of the aches out, give himself that much consideration as a promise to his body that better days were coming. Then, he'd head out for his own important agenda for the day.

(H/C)

His project took him most of the day, mainly due to his total inexperience with stores selling things fluffy, bright, or Cameronish. Finally, though, he made his selection and was happy with it. He took it back out of the sack at his apartment and studied it - a teddy bear. He hadn't wanted just any generic teddy bear, though. He'd wanted one that had some personality, that had some character, that had some strength. Just like Rachel. Not something mass produced, not something generic. Something as unique as she was. His final selection was a guaranteed limited run, but it was soft and snugly, while also having an expression about the face of curiosity, of possibilities. It didn't look machine sewn or from an assembly line. It had cost a figure that staggered him, but he had made no comment, just pulled out the credit card.

He wondered what the staff of PPTH would have thought if they could have seen Dr. House spending most of the day shopping for a teddy bear.

He looked at his watch. Getting close to time to leave. He pulled out the cell phone and called Cuddy.

"Hi." She had obviously looked at the caller ID first. "Did you have a restful day so far?"

"Yes, I did. It felt good. After breakfast with my mother, of course. How's Rachel?"

"She's wonderful. Totally stable, breathing on her own. Simmons recommends keeping up the ribavirin and hyperimmune serum for several more days while we monitor her, though. Just as a precaution."

"Good idea. Don't need to downgrade the medicine the minute she starts getting better, especially since she's so small."

Cuddy exhaled, like releasing the stress of the week. "You saved her, House. It's going to be okay. Thank you."

He wasn't used to getting praise for doing his job, but solving this particular one did feel good. "You're welcome. But it was Rachel who beat it. I need to get on the road soon."

"Okay. Have a good session. Bye."

"Bye."

House felt almost lightheaded with relief as he hung up the phone, and he put a hand against the wall to stablize himself. Freedom. The crisis was truly over. Rachel was rapidly improving, and everything was going to be okay. He wanted to celebrate, needed to feel the wind against him, washing away all the past eternal week in its wake, needed to feel the stress falling away. He was getting much more used to the subtle changes in balance that the cast enforced, and this afternoon, he decided, he wouldn't drive the car to Middletown. Weather clear, roads good, all well.

He was going to take the motorcycle.


	23. Chapter 23

Longest chapter yet, but I simply could not break this session up. Seems like the latest chapter is always my favorite, but from the beginning of plotting out this story before I ever started writing it down, I have absolutely loved this scene, with Jensen's private thoughts.

We now begin our way down the second hill. What good rollercoaster only has one? :) Still, remember, things happen for a reason; I'm not just torturing characters for the sake of it.

(H/C)

"Come in, Dr. House. Good to see you . . .again." Jensen's voice trailed off as he held the door of his office open. House limped heavily past him with a nod of greeting and once again took the chair with the ottoman and carefully propped his leg up.

Jensen pulled an adjacent chair over instead of going to the desk. "I'm going to touch you," he said, giving definite advance notice but not phrasing it as a question either, and House barely had time to tense up before Jensen was feeling his forehead. "Dr. House, you are ill. Do you realize that?"

"Just tired," House corrected him. "I've had an extremely difficult case this week, and I had to be up and down throughout the nights, couldn't use the sleeping pills because things were too critical. She's better now, though, and I fully intend to sleep tonight."

Jensen shook his head. "When you came in Tuesday morning, you already had a fever at that point. You have one now that is definitely higher, and I'd suspect you've had a fever throughout the week."

"I was sick - last weekend. I told you that. And I was put on antibiotics for it, and I've been getting better since."

"Because you as a medical professional surely realize that all antibiotics have 100% effectiveness against all infections."

House gave him a slight smile of appreciation. "Not 100%, but this one should be working. It usually does with me."

"There is another possibility besides resistance, of course. You have, as you said, had a difficult week, a complicated case. Do you have the antibiotics you are on with you?" House pulled them out of his pocket and tossed the bottle over. Jensen studied it, noting the date. "This was filled early Sunday morning at your hospital."

"Right, Wilson brought them over after my boss found me on her doorstep. I've only been on those since Monday, though. She was using a stronger one with IV injections at first, but I was getting better throughout Monday, so I switched to these when I left."

"So if you take 4 a day as prescribed here, assuming the first dose was Monday at dinnertime and assuming that you haven't had the final two doses of today, you should have taken 16 of them so far." Jensen opened the bottle, poured the capsules out into his hand, and counted. "Which is interesting, because you've apparently only taken 8."

House reached for the bottle. "That's impossible. I've been taking them." He counted himself and compared against the label.

"Not as prescribed, obviously. So far, we've proven that you switched from IV antibiotics to a less powerful oral one Monday afternoon, which was well under 24 hours after your fever had apparently spiked sharply Sunday night and required your boss using cold compresses for several hours to bring it down. You have only had half of the doses of oral antibiotics since then, no doubt irregularly and intermittently due to distraction of work and emotional overload, and also by your admission have been under a lot of stress and very short on sleep. When is the last time you took a sleeping pill and had a solid night's sleep?"

House was still recounting pills. "Monday," he said distractedly.

"Four days ago." Jensen studied him. "Is it safe to assume that you haven't been eating regularly this week, either? I only ask because you've definitely lost weight just since Tuesday, and at that point, you had lost some since Saturday." House was going through about his fourth recount. "The answer isn't going to change, Dr. House. And believe me, your fever is higher today than it was Tuesday when you were here. Whatever infection you had is not getting better, most likely because it has not been correctly treated all week."

House finally gave up on his recount and poured the capsules back in the bottle. "I _thought_ I was taking them." He genuinely sounded confused now.

"When did you last eat?"

House considered that, having to mentally backtrack. "I had breakfast with my mother this morning."

Jensen was glad to hear it, but he filed House's mother for discussion later. Clearly, the most critical issues to cover first were the physical ones today. "So as of 4:00 p.m., you've had breakfast so far today. Were you hungry?"

"Not really. She was pushing me to eat more."

"What about yesterday?"

"I think Wilson brought me a sandwich. . . yes, I know he did, because he stood there and watched me eat it." There was definite exasperation in the tone there.

"And no doubt if he had not, you wouldn't have finished it, would you? Okay, we have one sandwich eaten under duress for yesterday." House didn't bother answering that. Jensen sighed, beginning to have more sympathy for parts of Wilson's point of view. He stood up and went over to fish in his desk, pulling out a package of peanut butter cups and handing it over. "Eat that. One of the best rapid kicks in the world for low blood sugar. I don't technically have diabetes, but I get hypoglycemic once in a while."

"I'm not hypoglycemic," House insisted.

"What are the symptoms of hypoglycemia?"

"Lightheadedness, weakness, sweating, nausea, dizziness. . ."

"And you can honestly say that during this last week, you have experienced _none_ of those at any point?" House stopped to consider, and the dawning expression in his eyes confirmed it. "I realize that you truly believe what you say, but you clearly have not been taking care of yourself this week, even if you hadn't been sick in the first place, and since you were sick in the first place, that incompletely treated infection now has a stronger hold than it did. Tell me, during this last week, have any other people expressed physical concern for you, told you you did not look well?"

House snorted. "There's been a whole line."

Interesting that he did not have to pause to think there. He did not notice or remember his own physical needs, but he _did _notice what other people said about and to him, even while doing his best to negate the value of their assessment. "And it never occurred to you that the fact that so many of them thought you looked ill might have some basis in fact?" No, clearly it hadn't. Jensen was getting more fascinated all the time with this patient, described by Wilson as the most brilliant doctor he'd ever known, who had apparently just compiled a series of errors during one week that any first year med student could have seen. The key point, of course, being that the victim was himself. Jensen had no doubt he could have called anybody else on this days ago. "There is also the fact that you look . . . exhausted isn't a strong enough word. Dr. House, I'd like you to stay in Middletown tonight, get a room at a motel, instead of driving back before you've had any rest. Take the sleeping pill, get a solid night's sleep, and see a doctor, one of your coworkers if you wish, tomorrow for a thorough physical assessment. You also are going to have to find some way - medicine organizer, notes, something - to remind yourself to actually take the antibiotics on schedule, even when distractions occur. You _need_ those to get well, and you need them as prescribed. But you definitely do not need to make a 2-hour drive back to Princeton at the moment."

House was still looking rather stunned. He would have sworn he was taking those antibiotics. He _had_ sworn he was taking those antibiotics.

"Are you willing to do that?" Jensen asked.

"I meant to . . . " House stopped abruptly. "Okay, I'll stay in a motel here tonight."

"Thank you," Jensen said sincerely. "I'll sleep better tonight myself knowing that. But what made you change your mind in the middle of that sentence? You started to object, then stopped."

House looked away. "I had thought I might see what she's doing tonight when I got back . . . but she's had a tough week, too, slept at the hospital while her daughter was critical. She needs a good night's sleep at home herself. I'd just keep her from going to bed early."

"And you rate her need as more important than yours?" House did not answer that. "Do you routinely rate other people's physical concerns as more important than yours?" House still wasn't biting. "How much sleep have you had this week?"

"Not much. Never more than 2 hours straight. It's been too chopped up by the dreams, but I couldn't risk being out of it if Rachel needed me. Those sleeping pills _really_ work on me."

"Has your boss had more sleep than you have?" House debated. "Purely in terms of hours. Has she gotten more sleep this week than you?"

"Probably." He was reluctant to say it. "So now you point out that I need it more than she does?"

"I'm sure you both need it, Dr. House. This isn't a competition where the neediest one wins. I just find it interesting that you have spent a week basically ignoring your own needs, while sick and making yourself more sick through it, yet are so aware of hers. What does that tell you?"

House tried to deflect. "It tells me that I'm probably sitting in the office of a shrink."

Jensen rewarded him with a smile. He decided to switch to narrative extraction instead of direct questions at the moment, which seemed to work better with House. The more he heard, though, the more he thought that House's feelings for his boss definitely loomed large in his life, right alongside the abuse. "So your boss was able to get some sleep this week in her daughter's room during the crisis?"

"Catnaps. Several hours a night, but in an uncomfortable chair. I know it was several hours Wednesday, because I was watching. She was so tired she couldn't help sleeping, but it wasn't as good as in her own bed."

"You were watching her sleep Wednesday night?"

"I came down from my office at midnight to check Rachel." Interesting. He still didn't want to mention his boss's name to Jensen, but he referred to her daughter by name. "Watched Rachel for a while, and then _she_ woke up, and we . . . we talked a little." That was an obviously majorly edited account, but Jensen let it pass at the moment. "She fell back asleep, and I stood there watching. I had a feeling that Rachel was going to have something happen."

"You _stood_ there. You weren't sitting down?"

House shook his head. "I was afraid I'd fall asleep if I sat down."

"So what? Your boss already knows that you are having problems with nightmares at the moment. She prescribed you the sleeping pills."

"I would have disturbed her."

"So you stood there on a bad leg instead of sitting down and risking falling asleep and disrupting her rest later?"

House was getting tired of that line of analysis and tried jumping back to medical facts. "Rachel coded at 1:30. We . . . they got her back after two defibrillations."

Jensen couldn't resist chasing that inviting rabbit. "Why switch pronouns? You started to include yourself in the resuscitation and then edited it to remove you."

House picked up his left arm and let it fall back into his lap in frustration. "I couldn't work the paddles right with this cast."

"Oh. So what did you do instead?"

"I . . . let her hold my hand."

"A valuable contribution to the crisis, I'm sure she'd agree. You were hardly being useless. Yet you felt so?"

House sighed. "She wanted reassurance. She wanted somebody to tell her it would all be all right. I didn't . . . I can't. I can't feed people the bullshit they want to hear just because they want to hear it."

"Do you think someone else could have served better in that capacity?"

"Of course. Wilson, for one. He's so good at delivering empty optimism that cancer patients actually thank him all the time for telling them they're going to die. He can talk. I can't."

"Remember those signals? The ones that show she is wishing she weren't in your company? Was she at any point this week, Wednesday night or otherwise, during this crisis indicating that she would rather have someone else, either as attending physician or as supportive friend?"

House didn't want to think about that. Jensen waited patiently. "I . . . don't think so."

Time to give him some space on that one. "So after her daughter was resuscitated and after she had cried - I'm assuming she did cry? - what happened? Did she eventually go back to sleep in the chair?"

"Yes."

"And how long did you stay there?"

"Until morning. I wanted to keep an eye on Rachel."

"And you still were afraid to sit down?"

"Yes."

"So over all, how long were you on your feet in her daughter's room that night?"

House paused to add. "About 6 hours."

"Does standing make your leg hurt?"

"Yes. But she might have needed me."

Jensen pointedly looked at the peanut butter cups. "You haven't eaten those yet, Dr. House." House opened them and finished them off, and Jensen watched, not wanting to distract him at the moment with talking. For somebody who had only had breakfast today, after only having one sandwich yesterday, House certainly did not eat like he was hungry. The peanut butter cups might have tasted like sawdust for all the pleasure he got out of it. Jensen remembered Wilson's comment, that House always ate less the more emotionally strung out or stressed he got.

"Dr. House, why do you think you forget to eat at times?"

"I'm just not hungry sometimes."

"Typically when you get distracted at work or when there is more stress in your life?"

House hesitated, twisting a peanut butter cup wrapper in his good hand.

"Did your father use food to punish you?"

House sighed, then ripped the peanut butter cup wrapper in half. "He would do things to it to toughen me up, he said. Adding tremendous amounts of pepper, for one. I'd have to eat it, and if I threw up, I had to apologize, clean it up, and then eat another helping. He would also add things sometimes in cooking, spices deliberately done wrong. Once he was grilling and made me eat a raw hamburger." His voice was almost monotone, but he had by now torn each half of the wrapper into halves, then picked up the second wrapper and started working on it. Jensen noted again how dexterous he was - and noted the outright viciousness of the attack on the innocent wrappers.

"These happened while your mother was gone?" House nodded.

"Was your father also a schedule fanatic?"

House raised his head from his wrapper destruction. "Why would you think that?"

"Doing anything on a precise timetable seems to bother you. Even maybe subconsciously down to taking medication."

"Yes, he ran life to a military timetable."

Jensen changed gears. "Let's talk about the nightmares. You have said that they are much worse at the moment, usually just a few times a month. Do you ever wake up normally right now without it being from a nightmare?"

"Only if I've been drugged or if someone wakes me up deliberately. Monday, _she_ woke me up every hour and a half so I wouldn't have them."

"You have them on a timetable?"

"Just under two hours." House was definitely getting more uncomfortable, whether due to talking about his boss, the nightmares, or both, Jensen wasn't sure.

"Lifelong, have they always been on that schedule when they are at their most frequent?"

"Since . . . childhood."

"Why?"

House took a minute to further destroy the wrappers, which were down to pretty much confetti at this point. He switched to the outer package. "Whenever Mom was gone, he woke me up every 2 hours exactly," he said finally.

"And made you do what?"

"I had to jump right out of bed. He called it training - a call to duty might come at any point. Then I'd run around the house . . . on tacks."

"On tacks?"

"Shoes he redid with tacks in them that were just sticking up. Every step, they bit in somewhat, and if I'd cry or show pain, I'd lose credit for that lap and have to start over . . . " House broke off. "Do we have to talk about this?"

"No. We don't have to talk about anything you don't want to. You are in control of these sessions." Jensen cut him some slack. House was obviously not feeling well today.

"Other than when I walk in and you immediately tell me I'm ill and what an idiot I've been."

"Well, yes, I will mention it when you are obviously ill," Jensen agreed. "I realize this point of view with yourself is a new one, but your physical needs do have priority and should, even over mental preoccupation." House obviously was skeptical. "However, I don't recall using the word idiot. I'm sure you were simply distracted with your patient's crisis and pushed your own needs off, unaware to what extent you were doing so. Does someone regularly tell you you're an idiot?"

"Wilson. All the time."

"Under what circumstances?"

House shrugged. "I thought we weren't going to talk about Wilson. If you don't talk about me with him, you shouldn't talk about him with me."

"You are the one who brought him up. The fact that either of you comes up in conversation is not violating confidentiality. For me to share details of what has been revealed in session by the other - which I have not done and never will do - is violating confidentiality."

"Well, I don't want to talk about Wilson right now." House could just imagine Wilson's tone in response to his physical stupidity of the last week.

"What would you like to talk about?"

House considered. "My mother. I talked to my mother. Ground rules, like you said."

"And how did that go?"

"Amazingly well after the start." Jensen raised an eyebrow. "I was going to call her Tuesday but hadn't had a chance to because Rachel got sick right as I got back to Princeton. Rachel was in the ER, and my boss and I were going with her to radiology. Mom came into the ER and happened to run straight into me, and she started to apologize right there in front of the patients, staff, and everybody."

Jensen cringed. "What did you do?"

"Pushed her into a supply closet and told her that all discussions would be private, or I'd never speak to her again."

Jensen nodded. "Good. Regaining control of a bad situation. And how did she respond?"

"She actually listened. Like you said. Giving her clear, explicit directions worked."

"Given your description of her personality and her marriage to a Marine of your father's personality, I thought she would definitely be used to taking orders from family members. Have you talked to her since?"

"Twice. It's . . . hard but we did talk. I think she's starting to see that this is going to take a while."

Just then, Jensen's phone rang. "Excuse me a moment. My secretary left early today for a dentist appointment, so I'm wearing multiple hats this afternoon." Jensen stood and went to the desk, answering the phone. He kept the conversation to the point and devoid of names, and it only took him a few minutes, but when he hung up, he realized that House, stretched out in the chair across the room, had fallen asleep.

Jensen stood quietly and walked over, picking up his wrist gently to take his pulse and verify up close that House was simply asleep and stable and hadn't passed out. His pulse was steady, though a bit fast. Jensen once again checked his fever and then counted his respirations, which were also a little fast and not quite easy. He seemed to be getting air all right - fingertips and lips were not cyanotic - but he was having to work at it a little, not enough to be called labored but not normal. Jensen shook his head, amazed that a first-class medical doctor could so totally ignore and complicate a pre-existing illness as House had this week. At least House had agreed to stay in a motel tonight and get evaluated medically tomorrow. Jensen truly thought he was unsafe for any sort of long trip right now and liable to go to sleep behind the wheel on the highway. As he'd told House, exhausted wasn't a strong enough word for how he looked.

That left the question of what to do now. House was his last appointment today, and Jensen decided to simply let him sleep. He clearly needed rest more than he needed to talk, and anything he could get would help. It also, however, provided Jensen with a fascinating opportunity to observe a live example of House's nightmares at the moment. He glanced at his watch, noting the time, and then retreated to his desk, intending to do paperwork but finding himself spending more time watching his sleeping patient, and finally, he put down his pen and let himself settle into thought.

House was a dichotomy, perfectly illustrated in this week. Professionally, he was brilliant, decisive, impatient with slower minds, but in terms of relationships, he clearly saw himself as inadequate and almost doomed to failure. The scars of abuse almost always resulted in warped self-esteem. Still, he apparently had a potential relationship available, although he was afraid to fully grasp it and fail. His descriptions of his interactions with Cuddy were fascinating, with his repeated impressions that she must be wanting someone else, whether they were currently on a date or in a medical crisis, and his belief that he must be doing things wrong overriding her own cues. Of course, Jensen had not talked to Cuddy, but he'd be willing to bet a year's salary that the attraction was quite mutually strong. For one, the fact that she had set a trip wire on House, had seriously hurt him, and then within two weeks had had what House himself described as a "perfect" date spoke volumes. To go to that extreme to prank someone was either love or hate, nothing milder, and to go on a "perfect" date shortly thereafter pretty much settled the vote between the two. She herself wasn't quite in touch with or accepting of her feelings toward him, but they were undeniable. There was also the fact that on finding an employee passed out drunk and sick on her doorstep, her reaction had been to bring him inside and care for him physically by herself for two days. However well liked of a boss she was, Jensen doubted that identical reaction would have extended to all of her other employees. There would have been far more exasperation, far less devotion, far more eagerness to pass the buck. There was also the fascinating fact that she had bribed House to go into therapy, and that he did not resent this. That sort of mutual maneuvering on issues as large as the abuse only came after years of such mutual maneuvering in smaller matters. Those two had to have a long history of give and take. Yet they were only now proceeding to dating? Had they been in denial or just uncertainty or unavailability all these years? And had they realized denial and uncertainty were mutual?

Then there was the complicating issue of her daughter. House was referring to her by name and almost with an affectionate note in his voice, but Jensen thought it was safe to assume that the prospect of being a father figure, whether officially or not, terrified him. It was, of course, a fact that many abused became themselves abusers, but the very fact that House worried about it in advance spoke to which camp he would find himself in. His brilliant analytical skills seemed lost on issues pertaining to himself, though. Jensen wondered if the daughter was adopted; there had been no mention by either Wilson or House of a husband, and Cuddy would hardly have gone on a date, then taken in her drunk employee and tended him for two days like that with a spouse present, not to mention that someone else would have shared the bedside vigil. No, if there had been a closer hand to grasp while her daughter fought death, she would have grasped that one. Jensen had no doubt that Cuddy was extremely glad House had been there and available, not just medically but personally. No, there was no closer male to substitute. So was she a widow or an adopter? Either one came with its own possible issues on her side. There was also the fact that she was a female dean of medicine at a large hospital, which pretty much guaranteed uncommon ambition and drive and possibly a desire for control.

House stirred a bit, coughing in his sleep, and Jensen got up to check on him again. No change physically. He looked at his watch and retreated to the desk again, figuring that when the nightmare started, House would appreciate a distant audience more than an immediately chairside one. Not that he was liable to appreciate either, but he was the one who had fallen asleep in Jensen's office, after all.

Cuddy had also, according to Wilson, participated in the drugging and kidnapping of House, even though it wasn't primarily her idea. Still, she had not objected. In fact, Wilson had even said, "We thought he was being an antisocial jerk, as usual." Clearly, Cuddy herself had missed all the past abuse clues. Jensen had to remind himself at times that not everyone was a psychiatrist; the fact that someone must be drugged and kidnapped to attend a parent's funeral absolutely screamed of major issues. Based on that one fact alone, he would have suspected something on the level of abuse. Cuddy was most likely feeling guilty at the moment for what she'd missed. Mutual guilt, insecurities, and major complications - and yet Jensen had known quite successful relationships built on equal difficulties.

How best to try to guide House to believe that he was not doomed to relationship failure, either in general or in this particular?

House abruptly stirred, his breath catching, and suddenly and rapidly became progressively agitated. Jensen looked at his watch. Time table holding. House had said that his father woke him up every 2 hours on the nose, and Jensen doubted that there had been even 1 minute's variation in that, but he'd also said that his nightmares at their worst timetable ran just under that, thus waking himself up even a few minutes before he would have had to in childhood. He was subconsciously trying to avoid his father by pre-empting his role. Jensen forced himself to sit still and observe at a distance, but watching House's nightmare brought several things strongly to his attention. First, nightmares come in different levels, and these were clearly at the upper end of that range. Second, House was amazingly quiet, almost like he was trying to suppress words, to be discrete. He was mumbling something, but the volume was so low that you would have had to be right up against his lips to pick it out. Interesting that in extreme agitation, he still had some level of repression. Was he subconsciously attempting to avoid discovery now or to avoid scaled-up punishment in the past? The nightmare ended with a convulsive jerk, snapping to wakefulness so abruptly that House nearly fell out of the chair. He hurt his leg doing it, and he clawed at it with one hand while looking around, trying to orient himself, trying to get his ragged breathing back under control. Jensen deliberately stayed behind the desk and waited to be noticed. House fairly quickly placed his surroundings and then looked around specifically for Jensen.

"Enjoy the show?" he said, with a definite edge on his tone.

Jensen stood slowly, warning himself to be careful. They were absolutely in a minefield at the moment. He walked over to the coffee pot and water dispenser beside it, got a small paper cup of water, and carried it over, offering it to House. "No," he answered, "but I wasn't trying to."

House hesitated, eying the cup, and finally took it. He fished a bottle out of his pocket - not the antibiotics - and took two with a gulp of the water. "What was the point then, if it wasn't just live entertainment?"

"You needed the rest badly, however much you could get. You fell asleep while I took a 3-minute phone call without leaving the room. Isn't that an indication to you how exhausted you are at the moment?"

"You could have woken me up," House insisted. "Trying to extend the session to triple your fee?"

"I won't charge you extra," Jensen replied, sitting down in the next chair.

House immediately looked away. "You ought to. I took your time, after all."

"But I was doing paperwork. Far from a total loss. Consider it free bonus credits in your arrangement with your boss to avoid clinic duty." House gave a smirk for a second at that. He was massaging his leg muscle - or lack thereof - again one-handed, but this time, Jensen thought it was better not to offer to help him at the moment. "I was clear over at my desk, Dr. House. All I could tell - all _anyone_ could have told - from any routine distance at all is that you were having a nightmare, not the subject matter of it. Someone would have to be right on top of you and leaning over to within inches to hear what you were saying. I don't know what you were saying."

House was somewhat reassured by that but still obviously on edge. Before he could say anything, though, his cell phone rang - interestingly with a ring tone that Jensen recognized, one of the grand themes from Rachmaninoff's Second Piano Concerto. House pulled it out and opened it, and Jensen got up and retreated to the window, symbolically giving him privacy, although the room was small enough that he couldn't help hearing every word. "House." Strange that he identified himself when he not only had a specific ringtone - unless that was his standard - but had looked at caller ID. Was he trying to pretend to Jensen, the other party, or himself that he didn't know who it was? His voice couldn't help softening somewhat on the next line, though. "How's Rachel? Great. You need to go home and sleep tonight. . . well, that would be kind of difficult, since I haven't even left Middletown yet. . . no, I'm fine. Just tired. I'm going to get a motel room here for tonight and get a night's sleep before driving back . . .yes, I'll take the zolpidem. . . YES, I'll take the antibiotics. . . right. I'll see you tomorrow. Good night, Cuddy." He hung up, and Jensen turned from the window.

"Rachmaninoff's Second Piano Concerto?" he asked, deliberately going for a question that House would not have expected.

The surprise startled him out of some of his wounded privacy at the moment, as Jensen had hoped. "Do you play?" House asked.

"Guitar, not piano, but I've always loved classical music - well, pretty much any kind of music. What do you play?"

"Piano, guitar, drums, harmonica . . . usually," he amended, looking at the cast.

"Have you played that?" It was an incredibly difficult and technical piece, unapproachable by anyone who wasn't expert quality.

"For myself. Not in concert." House's right hand, and left to a limited extent, immediately twitched, reaching for remembered chords.

"Have you performed publicly?"

"I was in a band in college. I've done some piano bar, jazz . . . are you seriously going to just ask me about music after watching me have a nightmare and nearly fall off the chair?"

"Do you want to talk about that instead?" Jensen countered.

"No."

"I didn't think so." Jensen came back over and sat down. "Your father wasn't musical, was he?"

House gave a totally humorless laugh and wound up tripping himself into a coughing fit. Jensen went over to get him another cup of water, then sat back down, waiting. "Hardly," House answered when he could speak again. "Dad hated music. It was for sissies."

"So you aren't like him," Jensen pointed out, not limiting the statement to music. House immediately looked away again, and Jensen decided that he couldn't leave him with a better parting shot to think about. He stood. "Well, Dr. House, I think this has been a valuable session in several ways. But please, go to a motel and get some rest, take your medicine, and then get yourself checked out thoroughly tomorrow. It won't help her or anybody else if you don't take care of yourself."

House stiffly stood and wavered for a minute, and Jensen reached out to steady him. "Are you dizzy?"

"Just the leg," House replied. "I jolted it a minute ago . . . it will be okay." He took a tentative step, testing it, and then another, walking a slow circle around the room. The leg did seem to progressively get resigned, even if not silent. "Same time next Friday?" House asked as he started for the door.

"I'll put you down in the book. And remember, you can contact me sooner, by phone or visit, if you need to. It doesn't matter what time it is."

House gave him an awkward nod that might have been an attempt at thanks and left the office just as Jensen's phone rang again. He picked it up to get a request for an urgent consult at the local hospital. Seemed like this would be an interesting night.

Jensen could not have imagined just how interesting.

(H/C)

Outside, House took a minute to pull himself together before heading to the motorcycle parked nearly a block down the street, the nearest spot he'd been able to find when he'd arrived. He had lied to Jensen - well, sort of lied. Somewhat lied. His leg was indeed giving him hell at the moment and in fact had not liked its rude awakening a few minutes ago, but House also had felt a sudden wave of dizziness when he stood up from the chair. It had passed quickly enough that House hadn't thought it was worth mentioning. Probably lack of sleep, which he was about to remedy. Jensen had already called him on enough physical details tonight, although he at least did so objectively and professionally, not like Wilson would have.

House was still surprised about the antibiotics. Of course, he _never_ quite did anything on a strict schedule, and he knew he tended to get lost in thought at times, especially on a case, but he really had thought he was taking them. He would try to keep a much closer eye on it, and he would, as promised, go to a motel tonight. A good night's sleep would do wonders. Tomorrow he'd admit to Cuddy that he'd missed a few doses and was still running a fever, and he'd let her check him over, maybe go back on the IV injections for a while to get a handle on things again. He hadn't wanted to mention it to her on the call tonight, though. She needed sleep, and the last thing she needed was to immediately substitute concern for him for her freshly relieved concern for Rachel without at least one night's undisturbed rest in between. While he was thinking about it, House pulled out the antibiotics and took what should have been the dinner dose - well, peanut butter cups counted for something, after all - and resolved to take another tonight as a bedtime dose along with the zolpidem in the motel room. He'd try to be more careful, but he wasn't going to go as far as to get one of those pill boxes, the kind that people's 80-year-old grandmothers with memory problems had. He refused to be anybody's 80-year-old grandmother.

It was just after 7:00, and the street lights were on now. It was cold but clear. House hobbled to his motorcycle, clipped the cane in, and heaved his leg over. He had partially enjoyed the sense of freedom on the way up, but it had also been restricted by the fact that the cold rush of air, even through his jacket, made his chest hurt more. He'd even stopped at the first town outside of Princeton to pick up some cough drops. His cast also definitely affected his balance, although he could compensate well enough. Still, there was enough to compensate for with riding the motorcycle at the moment that it took part of the release out of it. House would have turned around within 30 minutes from Princeton and gone back for the car if he hadn't been worried about being late to his appointment. Jensen deserved some consideration for seeing him unscheduled Tuesday morning, after all.

House pulled his helmet on, took a deep breath, and immediately went into another coughing fit. Stop it, damn it. He pulled out the package of cough drops and unwrapped one, then started the motorcycle. He'd seen a Motel 6 off the highway near city limits. Good enough. He waited for an opening, pulled out into traffic, and headed that way. It was a block away when he suddenly started to feel dizzy again, but his destination was in sight, sleep just ahead. He pushed on.

He saw the car pulling out into the middle of traffic from his right, and his desperate swerve made his leg lock up, overbalanced him with his cast, and kicked the swirling black spots around the edges of his vision into warp speed. He knew he was falling, the pavement rushing up, knew the car was still coming, but he had already passed out before he ever felt either impact.


	24. Chapter 24

Jensen finished writing medication orders and involuntary hold paperwork for his urgent consult at the hospital, a psychotic patient who had been picked up by the police, and glanced at his watch. Between House and this one, it was a good thing he hadn't had plans for tonight. He headed back out through the ER. A gurney came through the doors pushed by paramedics, and Jensen moved over to the wall to get out of the way, then did a double take and turned to chase it. "Dr. House!"

The gurney turned into a room, and the patient was lifted from it onto the table. One of the ER physicians was already starting a direct assessment as the head paramedic gave his report. "49-year-old male, motorcycle vs. car MVA, patient was wearing a helmet, febrile, tachycardic, and low BP but not falling, unresponsive."

Jensen pushed in for a closer look while still trying to keep out of the way. "He was riding a _motorcycle?_" A minor detail that House hadn't told him.

The paramedic nodded. "Insane for a guy sick and with a broken arm anyway, huh?"

"Do you know him, Dr. Jensen?" asked the ER physician, looking at House's pupils.

"He's a patient of mine." Jensen hesitated, but this was medically relevant under emergency circumstances. "I know he had been sick all week, and he had missed several doses of his antibiotics while on a very stressful case. He also had not been sleeping or eating correctly all week."

"He hadn't been eating?" one of the paramedics asked. Jensen shook his head. "The guy's a walking pharmacy, although he seems to have legitimate scripts for it all. Vicodin, zolpidem, antibiotics, omeprazole - and ibuprofen at 800 mg strength, prescribed 3 times a day." Jensen flinched, as did the ER doctor. That was a massive dose of ibuprofen, and even combined with omeprazole, if he had been taking it without adequate food, it opened up a whole new set of possibilities. At best, it could have given him an upset stomach, which would have only exacerbated his lack of appetite. At worst, he could be well on his way to developing a bleeding ulcer.

The ER doctor put his stethoscope on and listened carefully to House's chest, frowning. "Decreased breath sounds in both lungs. I'd say he's definitely got pneumonia. Let's get a stat chest x-ray. Also left arm, right arm, and right leg. And a head CT to be safe, although his pupils look okay." Jensen studied House, whose clothes were being cut away now. He had abrasions on the left side of his face, left elbow, and the cast on his left arm had cracked. The right arm had obvious bruising and impact. The right leg - it was bruised also, but the pre-existing damage was enough to rivet everyone's attention for a minute. "Dr. Jensen, do you know the history on his leg?"

"No." Jensen studied the ugly scar. "That explains the Vicodin and ibuprofen, though." It hurt just to look at it.

"Let's get full blood work," the ER doctor continued. "We need to find out if the unconsciousness is traumatic or metabolic."

The head paramedic spoke up again. "The car directly behind him at the time of the crash was driven by a nurse. She swears that he was unconscious _before_ the impact. A car pulled out into traffic, not seeing the motorcycle, and he swerved to avoid, but she reported that after the initial swerve, he went totally limp and had no resistance for the rest of the fall or when the car hit him."

The ER doctor increased rate on the already-running IV. "He's pretty dehydrated, too." He picked up a pinch of skin and let it fall. "Did he have emergency contacts in his wallet?"

A nurse checked. "Just ID."

"I should have emergency contacts at my office on his initial paperwork," Jensen put in. "I can get them in 15 minutes." He gave one last look at House, who was now being transferred to a gurney to go to radiology, then turned away.

"Try to find out the history on the leg," the ER doctor called after him.

Jensen turned back at the door. "Overall, how critical would you say he is at this point? Just to give his contacts a preliminary idea?"

"Radiology will tell us more, but I don't think he has a major head injury or internal bleeding - not due to the crash, anyway. If he's anemic, we'll check him for an ulcer. The injuries don't seem life-threatening at this point, but he's definitely sick."

"Okay. I'll be back." Jensen headed out of the ER at a brisk walk, not running in front of the patients but definitely covering ground.

(H/C)

Back in his office, Jensen quickly found House's chart and flipped to the initial information sheet House had filled out last Saturday. Two emergency contacts listed, Lisa Cuddy and James Wilson. His mother was excluded. Had this sheet been filled out Tuesday instead of Saturday, Wilson probably would have been excluded, but as it stood, he was on the list. This would be walking a fine line, but in a medical emergency, Jensen was certainly authorized from this to discuss House with them. He'd try to protect his privacy mentally as much as possible, but as far as relevant physical details, they needed to know, and he needed some information. Jensen called Wilson's cell phone.

"Hello."

"Dr. Wilson, this is Dr. Jensen. I have some bad news." Most people preferred advance notice, even if just a few seconds.

"House?" The sharp concern in his voice was instant. "Is he okay? Cuddy said he had an appointment this afternoon."

"Yes, he did, but he got into a motorcycle accident shortly after he left my office."

Wilson's tone was disbelieving, yet with a familiar flavor of disbelief. "He took the _motorcycle_? That absolute idiot! How badly is he hurt?"

"He's still undergoing workup in the ER, but his injuries don't appear life-threatening at this stage. He is quite sick, however."

"He'd had pneumonia, but it was getting better this week."

"Unfortunately, it wasn't."

Wilson immediately put two and two together. "He wasn't taking the antibiotics, was he? Of all the stupid, irresponsible . . ."

"He truly thought he was. He just got distracted."

Wilson immediately flipped to self-recrimination. "I should have been watching more closely, but he's mad at me. I thought it was best to give him a little space."

"He is an adult, Dr. Wilson. His choices are not your responsibility."

Wilson steamrolled on, ignoring the statement. "I thought he kept looking worse all week, but he just said he was tired because of the case. I don't think he was eating much, either. He sure hadn't been stealing my food as usual."

Jensen couldn't resist one question there. "Stealing your food?"

"Right. What he eats best is stuff from vending machines or from somebody else's plate. Or, if you can get him to a function, which is rare, he loves a free food bar."

None of which had been specifically prepared for him. It was probably a subconscious preference, but it made perfect sense to Jensen. "Are you going to be coming up to Middletown, Dr. Wilson?"

Wilson sighed. "Yes. I'll leave in a few minutes, be there as soon as I can."

"His other emergency contact listed is Dr. Cuddy. Do you think she would prefer to be informed by someone she knows or by a stranger? Most people would rather get bad news from someone they know if possible."

"Look, she's had a hell of a week with Rachel. She went home to sleep. I'll just come myself tonight. She needs a good night's sleep more than she needs another crisis immediately."

"You're probably correct, but whether you are correct or not, do you have the right to pre-empt her decision?"

Wilson sighed. "I'm doing it again, aren't I? Okay, okay, I'll call her." He paused. "Would you have called her yourself if I didn't?"

"Yes," Jensen replied promptly.

"I'm sure she'll want to come. I'll try to drive, at least; she's not as tired as he looked, but she's still tired. Do you think that's interfering too much?"

"That's quite reasonable. One other thing, Dr. Wilson. We noted his leg in the ER. What is the history of that injury?"

"He had an infarction 10 years ago. Misdiagnosed for 3 days, and a large portion of the muscle had died by the time they worked it out. He refused amputation, but his girlfriend opted for debridement against his will while he was unconscious." Jensen flinched. "Did he hurt that leg again?"

"It looked like he had road abrasions on the left and an impact injury on the right. Neither looked extreme, but that's preliminary. They were in traffic in the middle of town, so it was probably a low-speed collision. He cracked his cast on the left, too. How bad was that break?"

"Simple fracture of the radius. At least it _was_. He didn't have surgery for it." Wilson sighed. "Okay, I'll call Cuddy and then pick her up and head that way."

"I'll go back to the hospital and stay with him for the moment," Jensen said. Most people also would rather have anybody familiar around when they woke up over strangers, and after all, he didn't have plans for tonight.

"Thank you," Wilson said with feeling. "We'll be there as soon as we can."

Jensen hung up, then pulled out a package of peanut butter cups, just in case they were needed later on what was starting to look like an all-nighter, and tucked them into his jacket pocket. With a sigh, he headed back to the hospital.


	25. Chapter 25

Thanks for the reviews; they keep the muse happy! And yes, I never meant to kill Rachel. I don't as a general rule kill people, just torture them thoroughly (evil laugh). Rare exceptions may apply. Second, some of you may be disappointed at the Cuddy/Jensen interaction immediately, but wait for it. Nobody drives up at night to the hospital bed of a loved one and immediately diverts for a psychiatric counseling session instead. She won't be becoming a regular patient of Dr. Jensen herself, which as someone mentioned is really pushing it to have all three of them seeing one psychiatrist, but they will definitely have their moments. Third, more turmoil and upheaval ahead. Aren't roller coasters fun? :)

Enjoy 25.

(H/C)

Jensen sat in the hospital room watching House, waiting. Wilson had called him back about an hour and a half ago for a further update, although most tests were still pending at that point. He had confirmed that he and Cuddy were leaving as soon as she called to check on Rachel again, which she was doing as he spoke.

Most of the stat tests were back now, and the further tests were being deliberately delayed. Jensen himself had been surprised at the lab tests and realized anew just how good House was at keeping up a smokescreen, probably even from himself. As bad as he'd looked in Jensen's office, he hadn't looked as bad off as he in fact was. His blood work told the tale, though. He was significantly dehydrated, with all electrolytes out of whack, was anemic, was battling an infection that had quite a dogged grip, and clearly had driven himself to the brink of collapse. The anemia wasn't severe enough to merit immediate endoscopy, and the doctors had decided to put off that test tentatively while monitoring his hemoglobin and hematocrit throughout the night. If they were declining sharply, the doctors would proceed, but nobody really wanted to give him Versed for that procedure until his respiratory status had improved.

The chest x-ray showed fairly bad pneumonia in both lungs, and since House's admission, his temperature had been steadily rising. It was as if once he was forced by the accident to stop in his relentless push to complete the week, all the wheels were falling off at once. The head CT was clear, the x-rays mostly clear, with the only acute break being that he had rebroken his left wrist where it had been beginning to heal, although the radiologist also commented on the old fracture. He now had another cast on that arm, and the road abrasions on that elbow and on his face had been cleaned of debris. The impact on the right arm and leg where the car had clipped him was showing impressive bruising, no doubt compounded by the ibuprofen, but there were no breaks. He would be extremely sore, but he was far more sick than he was hurt at this point.

He had not technically regained consciousness, but at what would have been around 1 hour 45 minutes from the crash, he started having nightmares, and this time, weighed down by illness and exhaustion, he could not seem to snap himself awake and end them. Instead, he was just restless and agitated, and Jensen finally wrote an order to give him the zolpidem after consulting with the other doctors on the case. House was not going to get any rest worth having without some chemical assistance, and rest was what he probably needed most right now. That and the two different powerful antibiotics he was receiving IV while they waited for cultures to come back.

Urgent footsteps sounded in the corridor outside, steps on a mission, and Jensen turned to the door to see Wilson preceded into the room by a woman who had to be Cuddy. She looked beautiful, worried, and guilty all at once. "Dr. Cuddy, this is Dr. Jensen," Wilson said, going through the introduction formalities, but Cuddy barely even noticed the man who had been sitting at House's bedside and had stood up as they entered.

She pushed straight on to the sole object of her focus. "House!" She picked up his good hand, squeezed it, and looked anxiously at his face. He was sweating, his breathing somewhat labored now, and nobody seeing him would have questioned that he was quite ill. She looked up at the monitors. His fever was 103.5 at this point.

Wilson came up to Jensen with an apologetic shrug, and Jensen gave him a "nothing to apologize for" smile. Social politeness versus the man you loved in distress was no contest at all. "How is he?" Wilson asked.

"Pretty sick. His injuries from the crash are limited to abrasions and bruising, except that he did rebreak that left wrist in exactly the same spot." Jensen looked back at House. "He's got pneumonia, with significant infiltrates in both lungs, and he's also dehydrated and anemic."

"Anemic?" Cuddy had apparently been listening as she hovered anxiously.

"We think that the ibuprofen combined with not eating correctly this week. . ."

Cuddy groaned and buried her face in her hands. "Damn it, why didn't I see that?"

Definitely guilt there, something Jensen thought was probably routine for her, but he didn't try to say anything at the moment. People sometimes need to punish themselves for a while before any suggestion otherwise will even begin to be heard.

"Did they scope him?" Wilson asked.

Jensen shook his head. "They won't clear him for Versed except on an emergent basis, and his H and H aren't that bad at this point. They're just going to run serial levels through the night and see where we go from here."

Wilson looked at his friend himself and shook his head in exasperation. "I can't believe he took the motorcycle. Even for House, that's stupidity at the moment. I don't know why he likes that thing in the first place."

"It probably makes him feel uncrippled," Jensen suggested. "Nobody looking would know, not while he's riding."

That made sense, Wilson had to admit. "So what happened with the crash?"

Jensen sighed. "He was heading for a motel at the time of the crash, probably the one he was within a block of. Another car pulled into traffic, didn't see the motorcycle. He swerved and apparently passed out at that point - probably illness and dehydration combined - but he didn't have a real chance to avoid it, anyway. The crash was the other driver's fault. I'd convinced him that he really was sick and needed to stay in Middletown to sleep tonight before driving back and then get evaluated tomorrow, but he didn't quite make it to the motel."

"Wow." Wilson was stunned. "You convinced him that he really was sick? And he listened to you? How many hours did that take?"

Jensen half smiled. "Try detached logic instead of emotional reaction. With some people, it works a lot better." He turned to look at House. "He's had the zolpidem for tonight, so he should be out, but his fever's been climbing steadily. If it hits 104, they might have to use ice."

Cuddy jumped, coming to life, unburying her face from her hands. "No ice," she said, one second in front of Wilson.

Wilson touched his jaw, remembering. "He'll totally flip out if you try ice. His dad used it on him. He nearly broke my jaw a few weeks ago when I put an ice pack on his bad leg."

"Maybe they can find some other way," Jensen said. "I'll make a note in his chart to use ice only as an absolute last resort."

"If we do have to use it, it needs to be Cuddy," Wilson added. "He won't hurt Cuddy. No matter how locked up he gets, he's careful with her."

That was fascinating, but Jensen could tell that Cuddy really wanted some time alone with him right now. This was hardly the moment for a psych consult, and Jensen was not a member of the family. It was time for privacy. "Well, I'll leave you two to it."

Cuddy looked back, really seeing him for the first time. "Thank you for being there for him," she said.

"I was glad I was available," Jensen replied. "He'll fight this. You know how stubborn he is."

She nodded, blinking back tears, and turned back to House. Jensen reached out to touch Wilson's arm lightly and then jerk his head toward the door. "Dr. Wilson, I'm going down to the cafeteria to grab a late sandwich. If you come with me, I'll show you where it is, so you'll know where to go for coffee or anything you two need. This hospital is a bit of a maze to people who aren't familiar with it."

"But . . . oh, right. Yeah." The light dawned with a bit of delay. "Thanks, I'd appreciate it. Cuddy?" He waited until she looked up. "I'm going down to the cafeteria to get us some coffee. Back in a few minutes, okay?"

"Okay." She turned back to House.

Jensen and Wilson left the room, stopping at the nurse's station where Jensen wrote a note to avoid ice if at all possible. They then headed down a twisting group of corridors that made Wilson realize that Jensen's excuse for getting him out of the room had only been half an excuse. This place really was a maze. "She's blaming herself," Wilson sighed. "All the way up here. She should have noticed this, noticed that. She was dealing with her daughter nearly dying, for God's sake. She's never cut herself much slack, though."

"Yes, it's ridiculous to blame yourself for things that are clearly beyond your control, isn't it?" Jensen noted.

Wilson started to nod vigorously and then froze in mid-nod, trapped. "Well." He sighed. "Yes, I suppose it is. Regardless of whether it's yourself at alleged fault or not. Are you going to send me a bill for this walk?"

"No charge," Jensen said. "That was free bonus advice. Use it however you want to." His cell phone rang just then. "Excuse me." He stopped and pulled it out. "Dr. Jensen."

"Dr. Jensen, this is the tech on 3A. There's one legal form on the commital on John Doe that wasn't in the chart earlier; we were out of that form and had to get some more faxed over. We need your signature."

"I'm still in the hospital; I'll swing by before I leave. Wait, actually I was just heading for the cafeteria, and that's right on the way. If you'll met me outside the unit door in about 2 minutes, I'll sign it on the run."

"Will do, Dr. Jensen. Thank you."

Jensen snapped the phone shut. "Sorry. This has been a crazy night." They started walking again.

"Odd choice of words for a psychiatrist," Wilson noted.

"I said the night was crazy, not the people in it." Jensen couldn't resist probing just a little bit. "How long have Dr. House and Dr. Cuddy known each other?"

"About 20 years. They met in med school."

"And have they always. . ."

"Oh, yes. It's like watching a chemical reaction. She's as stubborn as he is, and they both have tried denying it, but I was hoping they were almost ready to give in. Since then, though, the world just won't let them alone. With special help from me," Wilson sighed. "I swear, I thought last Saturday was the right move." He stopped in horror. "Oh, Lord, somebody has to tell his mother." He looked desperately at Jensen.

"Sorry. I'm authorized to talk to you and Dr. Cuddy as his emergency contacts, but not to her. By the way, does one of you have proxy?"

"She does. And that's a BIG deal with House. It was the misuse of the previous proxy that left him crippled."

Jensen rounded another corner and stopped at a securely bolted door. "Just a minute. I need to sign something quickly." The psych tech came through the door a few seconds later and presented a chart, and Jensen glanced over the form, then signed neatly at the bottom, one of the few doctors who had an absolutely legible signature. He handed the chart back, but as the tech turned to reenter the ward, she stumbled slightly, her foot not quite making the pivot with her, and the chart spilled its contents onto the floor. Jensen immediately dropped to help her, and they shuffled papers back together. Wilson bent to pick up one which had nearly landed on his foot, but as he started to hand it back over, he froze, captured by the Polaroid picture on the face sheet that was pasted under the name John Doe #3. His heart stopped for a moment, then restarted with a rush.

"DANNY!"


	26. Chapter 26

Short but poignant chapter, and probably all you are going to get for today. Thanks for all the reviews!

(H/C)

After Jensen and Wilson left, Cuddy sat there beside House, watching his struggle to breathe, even on oxygen. She wasn't aware when she started speaking. "Listen, House. You do NOT have permission to do this, you hear? You can't dangle a world of possibility in front of me on Friday night and then half kill yourself the next week. If we're going to have anything together, you have to BE here. Understand? I know how tired you are, but you've got to keep fighting."

He didn't respond, and she leaned over closer. "Remember how strong Rachel is? She's doing better all the time; I just called tonight before driving up here. You saved her, House. You did save her. You're that strong, too. Now's the time to prove it." She sighed. "I apologize for not noticing what you were doing to yourself this week. I should have. But you should have, too, damn it. You matter enough for people to care about, yourself included."

He was totally still except for the labored breathing. Cuddy looked up at the monitor. 103.7. She stood up and went into the bathroom, getting a washcloth and a small basin. She'd try what had worked Sunday night. She soaked the cloth in cold water and then wrung it out. "Okay, House, I'm going to be using some cold water. It's just water, just me. Here we go." She reached out and wiped the sweat off his face and neck.

He reacted immediately, but his reaction was so much weaker than Sunday night, weighted down under illness, drugs, and exhaustion, that it scared her. "No," he mumbled, barely audible, as he tried to pull away but didn't have the strength for much resistance.

She wet the cloth again and put it across his forehead. "It's okay. I'm helping you with the fever."

He retreated, but a child could have stopped him. "Didn't mean to . . ."

"You didn't do anything wrong, House. Although we're going to have quite a conversation when you're awake and able to, you idiot. But you just need to be still and work on getting better now."

". . . take the bear."

"What?" She couldn't figure out if he was delirious or lost in memories or a combination. Surely his father hadn't used wild animals against him. She didn't wring out the cloth as much this time, letting cold water trickle down his face. He flinched and pulled away weakly.

"He can't have the bear."

"There isn't a bear here, House. Just us. You're in the hospital, and you've got a high fever, but we're working on making it better."

"No. . . wouldn't understand. Just weak . . . waste of time."

"You are NOT a waste of time, House." She never stopped wiping his face and his neck, using the cloth right over the great vessels of the neck. Right over his scar.

"Lost the bear. He took it. She'll never know. . ." He shivered as she let cold water trickle over his face again. "I'm sorry." In the grip of the fever and the past, he used the phrase that he hated, and the tone might have been that of a small boy.

"House, you didn't do anything." She picked up his good hand with her free one.

"Didn't mean to care . . ."

"What?" She stared at him. "Do you think you're being punished right now by your father for caring?" And what on earth was it about a bear? Sunday night, she'd been able to track his thought processes even in delirium, but tonight seemed totally without reason.

He shivered again and pulled weakly back. "How did he know? He knows everything. No use . . ."

"No, there IS use, House. Caring isn't useless. You aren't useless."

He abruptly tried to lift his left arm, and the weight of the cast and the illness dragged it back. "Won't let him have it. . . my bear."

"Did he take a toy of yours when you were young, maybe?" She wet the cloth again.

For the first time, his voice was starting to have some strength and feeling in it instead of nearly inaudible murmurs. "NO! Won't let him . . . it wasn't weak."

She squeezed his good hand. "Easy, House. He's not here. Just me. It's okay."

His eyes snapped open, totally glazed and wild. "LEAVE ME ALONE! You bastard. . . didn't win. . . won't win . . . you can't have the bear."

Cuddy hesitated, unsure if she should be soothing him or encouraging what was at least some spirit of fight. "Can't have it . . ." he went on. "Not ruin this . . . you've had enough . . . no more." He collapsed back into the pillows as if totally depleted by that outburst.

Cuddy brought the cloth back up to his face. She suddenly remembered what had impacted him most directly the other night. "Listen to me, House. He's gone. He's dead. It's over."

His unfocused eyes looked for her desperately, searching around the room. "He's gone?"

"Yes. It's over." She paused. "He'll never get the bear."

That got to him, and he relaxed abruptly, eyes falling back closed. "No more," he muttered.

"No more." She wiped off his face again and glanced at the monitor. His fever had dropped to 103.5. She continued tirelessly bathing his face and neck in the cold water, and while he still flinched at every contact, he didn't say anything else. Cuddy felt tears welling up in her own eyes. She still had no idea what most of that had meant, but she did realize that he had at least been fighting. Hopefully his spirit wasn't as worn out as the rest of him.

_You will NOT ruin this, you bastard_, she thought silently but with deadly, laser intensity. _You've had enough. No more._


	27. Chapter 27

It wasn't until nearly an hour later that a nagging thought finally managed to swim through the waves of worry to the surface of Cuddy's mind.

He had been fighting his father.

Over the last few weeks, when he was in the grip of memories through being hurt/delirious, having nightmares, having flashbacks, or having panic attacks, House's unfailing aim regarding his father had seemed to be pure escape. His occasional physical resistance in a flashback had been purely in an effort to give himself space to get away, and the broken, childlike apologies in an attempt to forestall punishment when he could not physically escape it brought tears to her eyes. But never before tonight had she seen him actively launch a attack against the ghost of his father and demand that his father leave, rather than trying to leave himself.

She couldn't help smiling. That was progress; she _knew_ that had to be progress. He was winning over his demons. Ever so slowly, and she knew it would take a long time still, but he was fighting. Whatever the bear represented, the delirious thought of his father taking that along with the rest of his shattered childhood had psychologically knocked him across some line, and he was now getting mad right in the face of his ghosts as well as fearful.

"House," she said, stroking his hair, "I am proud of you. And . . . I love you. Get mad at him. Don't you let him take that bear."

She was still wiping his face with the wet cloth, and he still flinched every single time it touched him, but his fever was now 103.2. He looked awful, his breathing still labored, but somehow, she could sense a new core of resolution in him.

_No more, you bastard. No more._

(H/C)

Wilson was totally numb, the only part of him seemingly with feeling being the roof of his mouth, which was burned with every sip of hot coffee. He drank it anyway, needing to feel something as proof that he was alive.

He and Jensen were sitting at a table in the corner of the cafeteria. The place was sparsely populated at this time of night, and they had easily secured privacy. Jensen was eating a late supper and had bought Wilson a cup of coffee, and Wilson sat across the table from him with his mind still back on Ward 3A. He had been taken in to formally identify his brother, and none of Jensen's advance warnings had prepared him for the sight. Danny was in full restraints, clearly under the influence of sedatives, and still trying to fight. He had been redressed in a hospital gown and sponged off, but his hygiene was still horrible, his beard full, his hair greasy. Worst of all were the eyes, half open and ranging wildly around the room, going straight past Wilson without a pause. If any word his brother spoke reached him, he gave no sign. Wilson had stood there, dimly aware of Jensen's sympathetic grip on his arm, and finally he had nodded and turned away. Yes, that was his brother. Or, to quote Shakespeare, a piece of him. Wilson remembering playing the role of Horatio once in college, and never more through the years than now had he felt like that poor character, doomed to be the friend, the confidante, the one people liked and turned to, forced to stand by helplessly while everyone else close to him was destroyed.

"I saw him once, several years ago," he said. "I was in a cafe and saw him outside, but by the time I got out, he was gone. That was it." He shuddered, remembering the look in those eyes back on the ward. His brother was _crazy._

Jensen had simply been sitting there, letting Wilson vent and reminisce and noting again how direct he was. He didn't try to avoid issues; he wanted to deal with them right away. As he wanted to deal with this one. And it wouldn't work, anymore than House's mother could have the quick fix she wanted in that relationship.

"Is there anything you can do for him?" Wilson asked, for the first time pausing in his river of memories.

"There are new drugs. We'll do our best, but the fact that your brother has been out of treatment so long means this is not going to be a short or easy process. I don't know how much of the old Danny you'll recover or how long it will take."

Wilson drummed his fingers against the side of his coffee cup. "I started writing that letter," he said suddenly. "I never thought I'd actually have a chance to deliver it. And I sure never thought if by some stretch of imagination I could deliver it, that he might not be able to read it anyway." The flood of emotion suddenly overcame him, and he put his head down on the table and sobbed. Jensen slid over a bit to put a hand on his quivering shoulder but just let him cry for the moment. Jensen did glance around the cafeteria, but they were in the far corner, and the few people around weren't paying them any attention. One advantage of being in a hospital - it is one of the few places where someone crying quietly is seen as quite explicable and nothing commanding special notice.

Wilson finally lifted his head, sniffling a bit, and Jensen handed him his napkin. He blew his nose. "Sorry about that."

"Believe me, it's one of the best reactions you could have had. Your brother is under a 96-hour involuntary hold right now as an acute danger to himself, but he will most likely be transferred to a purely psychiatric hospital for a long-term stay. Do you understand the procedures there?" Jensen offered a diversion from emotions to paperwork in case Wilson wanted a respite.

He latched onto it gratefully. "Yes. I thought at first I might bring him back to Princeton, but we don't have a long-term unit, and probably, that wouldn't be a good idea."

"I wouldn't recommend it. Not in the same hospital where you work; you need more compartmentalization than that to stay functional."

Wilson nodded. "Probably. It's not like location is going to mean anything to Danny. He could live in my living room and not know it."

"The important thing is that he's found now. We can start the road to whatever recovery he's capable of. That's far ahead of where he was yesterday."

"Right." Wilson sighed. "What would you do, if you were me?"

"I'd go back at the moment to the friends I can help; Dr. Cuddy is going to need you tonight to keep her going. I do think you should finish writing that letter, even if it seems pointless. It isn't."

Wilson jumped guiltily. "She probably wonders what hole I fell into. It's been over an hour."

"I doubt she noticed the time," Jensen remarked, and Wilson gave a small smile.

"Can I . . . um . . . see Danny tomorrow? Do you think it's a good idea?"

Jensen considered. "Honestly, I wouldn't recommend it until he's more stable. For your sake as much as his. But I'll come by tomorrow morning to check on Dr. House and give you an update." He stood, picking up his empty tray.

Wilson stood up in turn. "You've had quite a night with us tonight, haven't you?"

Jensen gave him a sympathetic look. "Plenty of people have had worse ones. Go back to your friends, Dr. Wilson. They need you - and they know that."

They parted at the door of the cafeteria, and Wilson made a stop in the men's room, where he washed his face and studied himself thoroughly, trying to erase the tracks of tears. Still debating whether to add this to Cuddy's burden or not tonight, he started for House's room, then skidded to a halt, scolding himself, and turned to go back to the cafeteria. He'd forgotten her coffee.


	28. Chapter 28

Wilson entered House's hospital room. "Sorry it took so long. Here's your coffee." He looked from Cuddy to House. "How's he doing?"

"Hanging in there. He's putting up a battle for it." Cuddy gratefully took a sip of the hot coffee. "I want to move him back to Princeton, but I don't think we'd better yet."

"No," Wilson said definitely, eying the monitors. "His respiratory status isn't stable enough." He noted the wet cloth which Cuddy had picked back up. "Do you want me to take over for you a bit, give your hands a break? Do you think he'd let me?" he added as House flinched slightly at the cold touch on his face. Even unconscious, his aversion to anything resembling ice was evident.

Cuddy hesitated. "I'm not sure. I'd hate to get you hit again." She looked up at Wilson for the first time. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing," Wilson said automatically. She didn't need this; she had enough on her plate. A few seconds later, he caught himself. She ought to be allowed to vote for herself. "I got some bad news, but it will wait. I know you're worrying about House. It's not urgent; I can tell you later."

Cuddy's first thought was immediately for House. "There's nothing about him you're trying to hide from me, is there? Did the doctors tell you something else privately?"

"No, nothing like that. He's fine. I mean, he's not fine, but you have all the information I do on him."

She studied him. "Go ahead and tell me now. You look like you could use a friend."

Wilson had to fight back tears again suddenly. Always, he tried to be the friend, to be the giver. Others caring for him was something that was hard to accept at times, but at the moment, her offer touched him to the core. He covered by turning away and pulling another chair from the far wall closer to the bed. Sitting down, he faced her. "I found my brother."

Cuddy immediately looked sympathetic, even though she had no idea of all the details here. "You had a missing brother?"

"Schizophrenic. He's been missing since I was in med school. He was brought into this hospital tonight as a psychotic John Doe." He shook his head. "If I hadn't been here . . . he had no ID, no orientation. They might have never known. _I _might have never known."

"Can they help him?" Cuddy asked.

"Jensen is going to try, but he's been off meds for years. I saw him, to identify him. He had no idea who I was or even that I was there. He's totally insane." Once again, it overcame him, and he choked back a sob. Cuddy started to reach across to touch him, and in doing so, she dropped the wet cloth, which landed with a smack on House's chest. He jumped and batted out weakly with one hand.

"Can't have . . . the bear," he mumbled.

Cuddy quickly picked up the cloth again and recaptured his right hand, squeezing it. "Easy. It's just me. He's not here." House stilled again.

The puzzle was at least enough to divert Wilson's attention and let him regain a bit of control over himself. "The bear? What bear?"

"He's delirious," Cuddy pointed out.

"Even so, I doubt he'd come up with pink elephants or such. He's been pretty reality based when he's out of it so far. What's the bear?"

She shrugged. "I have no idea. Maybe his father took a toy when he was young."

Wilson smiled suddenly. "Do you think there is a picture anywhere in existence of House with a teddy bear? That would be blackmail material." The smile faded. "Danny had one he carried with him all the time as a toddler."

"Wilson, I'm sorry. If there's anything I can do, let me know." She rewet the cloth and wiped off House's face again, squeezing his hand more tightly as he flinched. "Do you want to move him to Princeton?"

"He's going to need a long-term facility. There are better choices - and I probably need a bit of distance, too. Having him right there in our hospital - I don't know if I could focus on work."

"Wherever you want, I can make some calls if I need to. Administrators know each other."

"Thanks." He sighed. "All week, I've been thinking how ridiculous it is for Blythe to just want to fix things, one talk and have it all right. Right at the moment, that's all I want, too. I never thought I'd be identifying with her."

"The difference is, you know it isn't that simple." Cuddy came to attention in the chair so quickly that her back yelped in protest. "Blythe! We need to notify Blythe. Tomorrow, anyway." Maybe it would stay the middle of the night forever?

Wilson sighed again. "I'll flip you for her."

Cuddy gave a wry smile and looked back up at the monitors. 103.1.

(H/C)

House fought his way up through what felt like cotton candy in his mind, struggling toward consciousness. He felt absolutely awful - leg, both arms, right side, left side, and his chest hurt, and his head felt almost as if it was made of glass. Glass stuffed with hot cotton candy. In addition, his entire body felt like it weighed 1000 pounds. It was an effort to simply open his eyes.

When he finally succeeded in that endeavor, he realized that he was in a hospital room, although it didn't look like PPTH. Slowly he focused and realized that Cuddy was curled up asleep in a chair next to his bed and was holding his right hand. Wilson was standing at the foot of the bed, staring out the window into early morning sunlight, apparently totally lost in thought. House tried to speak, but his voice felt like it hadn't been used in years. "Where are we?"

Wilson jumped and turned. "Hey! How are you feeling?"

"Like crap. Where are we?" He tried to clear his throat, and Wilson reached over to the nightstand to pour a cup of water. House didn't want to let go of Cuddy's hand and wake her, but his left was encased in that stupid cast. No, wait, in a different cast. This one looked newer, bright white again, and was missing the dent in the end from Wilson's jaw. The oncologist apparently realized his difficulty at the moment and simply held the cup up so that House could latch onto the straw. He fought the urge to go into a coughing fit, but the cool water was delicious.

"We're in Orange Regional Medical Center in Middletown."

Middletown. He remembered Jensen, then leaving the office. From there it got progressively hazier. "I know I was in Middletown, last I checked, but what are you two doing here?"

Wilson shook his head in exasperation. "Yes, why on earth would we be here? What were we supposed to do when we get a call that you're unconscious in the emergency room, just say thank you and hang up?" He sighed. "You crashed your bike."

It was coming back now, slowly. "I distinctly remember another car being involved. Not my fault."

"What the HELL were you doing on the motorcycle anyway?" Cuddy stirred in her sleep and then was still again.

"Keep it down," House commanded. "She needs her rest." He looked over at the monitor and blinked. "Why do I have a fever of 102.5?" Heart rate was up a bit, too.

"Because you have pneumonia, which, by the way, you've actually had all week and getting worse while you weren't treating it correctly. Minor detail that escaped you there."

"I know I missed a few doses, but I didn't think my fever was _that _high." House closed his eyes for a minute. This conversation was wearing him out. "I was going to let Cuddy check me out again today - it is Saturday, right? How's Rachel?"

"She's doing a lot better than you are. Stable and improving, last check. And yes, it's Saturday." Wilson paced to the end of the bed and then turned to repeat the track, like a restless dog tied on an invisible leash to the bed railings. "Seriously, House, your lab work from last night was scary. You haven't been sleeping, haven't been eating. You were dehydrated and anemic. We're hoping you only gave yourself a case of gastritis instead of a bleeding ulcer. H and H are low but at least stable since you've been on high-dose PPIs all night. Why the hell would a doctor take 800 mg of ibuprofen on an empty stomach? Several times, I'll bet."

House replayed the week mentally. "I tried to eat something with it usually. Or intended to, at least." There were a few times he had gotten sidetracked between the pills and the intended meal.

"Eat what with it? Two chips? A bite of a doughnut? A cup of coffee?" Wilson hit the end of his track and turned. "That doesn't _count, _House. Were you actually trying to kill yourself this last week, or did you just not care? If you don't matter to yourself, at least take us into consideration."

House eyed him, head tilted. "What's wrong?"

Wilson reversed again, wearing a groove into the floor. "What's wrong? You're a total idiot, and you nearly died through your own stupidity. Which I had to explain to Cuddy and then drive both of us up here last night. And we still have to have the fun of explaining everything to your mother. What on earth could be wrong?" Wilson's problems could wait until House was better. He didn't need to be trying to diagnose new and improved answers for Danny from his own hospital bed.

"That's not it," House objected. "There's something more. You're too keyed up for just me being sick." He reversed tilt on his head to try to think better from the other side and went into a coughing fit.

Cuddy had been still through the quiet conversation, but she woke up promptly now. "House?" She realized that his eyes were open. "Hey, welcome back. Easy." She raised the head of the bed some and passed him the cup of water as soon as he could breathe again. "How are you feeling?"

"Sore." An understatement. He moved his right arm gingerly, not even trying it on the leg. The bruising was pretty impressive. He looked at his left arm, which had a large dressing across the elbow above the cast. "Did I break anything?"

"Rebroke your left wrist, same spot. The rest is just bad bruising and a pretty large scrape on your elbow. You're lucky it was a low-speed collision." She sighed. "Why did you take the motorcycle?"

He looked away, misreading weary concern for disappointment. Yes, it had been stupid. He'd realized that pretty quickly. He should have gone back for the car and just been late, maybe called Jensen to reschedule. "I just wanted to feel . . . free. Like the week was over."

"Boy, that worked," Wilson commented. He resumed his pacing track next to the bed.

"Would you stop that? You're making my head hurt watching you." House closed his eyes again.

Wilson stopped with a sigh and retreated to the window again, staring out into the parking lot. Cuddy looked from one of them to the other with exasperation.

"Good morning!" Dr. Jensen swung into the room, and all occupants came back to life and looked that way. "Dr. House, glad you're awake now. How are you feeling?"

"Like I fell off my bike," House replied lightly. Jensen's eyes went from him to the monitor screen and back. House definitely had more walls up in a group, even with friends, than he did in a one-on-one session. "All right," House admitted, "maybe a little worse than that, but I'll live."

"Not through lack of trying otherwise," Wilson muttered. "Be nice to him, House. He stayed with you last night while we drove up here."

"I really was heading for a motel," House told the psychiatrist. "A car just got in the way."

"I know," Jensen assured him. "You were keeping your word. It's probably a good thing you were brought in last night anyway, though. I realize you weren't fully aware of it, but you were quite ill, even worse off than I thought you were." House looked away, studying the new cast, and Jensen turned to Wilson. "Dr. Wilson, could I speak with you out in the hall for a minute?"

Wilson jumped into action, hitting the door to the room a couple of strides before Jensen did. House frowned, studying the intent conference just outside the door. "Odd place for a consult. Odd time, too."

Cuddy fished for a distraction. Obviously House didn't know about Wilson's brother yet. "House, did you ever have a teddy bear when you were a kid?"

He rolled his eyes. "Right, you can really see me with one, can't you? No, I didn't. Don't think I could have anyway - stuffed animals were too sissy - but the issue never came up. Why?"

"Last night, when your fever was nearly 104, you were mumbling something about a bear."

She saw the pieces snap together behind his fever-bright eyes. "People tend to say some strange things when they're delirious." He knew, and the bear did mean something, but he wasn't going to tell her. It wasn't that he was particularly upset at the moment, not like in the grips of a flashback like the other night; he was just deliberately and calmly choosing to shut her out. She pushed back the feeling of disappointment resolutely, wondering how long would it take him to start sharing the past with her again. You can trust me, damn it, she thought. I wasn't the one who hurt you, not this time.

Instead, she said, "Honestly, how are you feeling?"

"Tired," he replied. An understatement. "If I go back to sleep, can you wake me up in an hour and a half? Maybe you could get naps yourself, too."

"Sure. I have an alarm on my cell phone."

He looked back at her. "I . . . apologize for all this. I really didn't mean it."

"I know. And honestly, that scares me. You _have_ to start taking better care of yourself, House."

He sighed and settled back, closing his eyes. Cuddy apparently took that as a signal, as she leaned back in her chair and fished out her cell phone to set an alarm. Through half-closed lids, House watched Jensen and Wilson in the hall. They were in deep conversation. What on earth were they talking about? And did it involve him? Jensen had promised confidentiality, but it was hard to think up any other urgent possibilities that required a conference this minute in the hall of the hospital right outside his room. House couldn't help being a bit suspicious around Wilson these days, especially when Wilson looked like he'd had an IV infusion of fresh guilt and obviously didn't want him to know about something.

His stressed body pulled him back into sleep before he could finish the thought.


	29. Chapter 29

Cuddy's cell phone startled her out of sleep, and she was scrambling to shut off the alarm when she realized that it was actually a call. House barely stirred at the sound, deeply asleep. Cuddy put her hand over the ringer to muffle it, checked caller ID, and cursed. She looked around, spotting Wilson standing at the window again. "Wilson! It's Blythe. Wake him up in 10 minutes, would you?"

"Sure," he said. "Good luck."

Cuddy rolled her eyes. "We who are about to die salute you." She quickly left the room. House needed all the rest he could, and she wasn't going to deprive him of another 10 good minutes. Besides, nobody should have to wake up to this.

Outside, she squared her shoulders, pasted on her administrative smile, and forced her tone into pleasantness as she headed down the hall. "Hello."

"Lisa! This is Blythe. What took you so long?"

"The phone had fallen to the bottom of my purse," Cuddy lied instantly.

"Well, I cannot find Greg _anywhere_ this morning. I've been to the hospital, I've been to Jimmy's, to your place. None of you are at home. His phone is turned off. I've left several messages for him. Where _is _everybody?"

Cuddy closed her eyes and shot up an arrow prayer. "We're out of town on hospital business" - the type where one of you is a patient, she thought - "but we should be back in a few days."

It didn't work. She'd been afraid it wouldn't. The trouble with using out of town as a lie is that after it's been revealed once, it won't be trusted again. "But that's what Greg said last Saturday, and it turns out he had been to see a psychiatrist out of state just to avoid me. Are you all just avoiding me? I've tried to go slowly, I've tried not to push him, but I am not going to be just shut out from my son's life. If he wants to tell me to get lost, I want to hear it from him, not just get a conspiracy from his friends. Let me talk to him."

"He's not available right now, Blythe."

"WHERE IS HE? Is he okay? Is he hurt? Why can't he come to the phone?" Blythe gave a gasp. "Is he _dead?_ Is my son dead and you aren't telling me?"

"NO! I swear, Blythe, he's alive and . . . um . . ." Cuddy hesitated just a second too long before assuring Blythe that House was alright.

"Is he sick? I knew it. He looked SO tired at breakfast yesterday."

"Well, yes, he's sick. He's worn out from all the stress last week with Rachel." And with you, Cuddy added mentally. "He just needs a few days to rest up."

"Where is he? I'll bring some chicken soup. I won't push him - ask him, I've really been trying to take it in small pieces like he asked. But I can't just sit here while my son needs me."

"He's somewhere safe at the moment, Blythe." Cuddy tried to regain control of this avalance and again tossed a mental slap at Wilson, who had set it off.

"Not good enough. I want an answer, Lisa."

To hell with politeness. "Blythe, he is sick, he needs to rest, and he does NOT need to be bothered at the moment. And I have no intentions of letting you do so. He'll be back in Princeton next week, and you can see him then."

"I want to hear it from him," Blythe insisted. "I want to hear him tell me he's alright."

Since House frequently had to stop at the moment when speaking to catch his breath, Cuddy doubted that would reassure Blythe much, but regardless, she wasn't going to allow it. Enough. "I'm sorry, Blythe. He's recuperating. He'll be home soon." She clicked the end button firmly and then switched the ringer to vibrate so that it wouldn't ring itself to death and make House ask questions. Then she stood still for a minute, catching her own breath, then called PPTH to check on Rachel. Might as well get ONE piece of good news at the moment.

(H/C)

Wilson checked his watch, gave one last look out the window toward the psych ward at an angle across the parking lot, and walked over to the bed. "House?" His friend didn't stir. Shame to wake him up, since he was so exhausted, but Wilson knew his rest wouldn't last, anyway. He shook his friend's shoulder gently. "House! Come on, time to wake up."

House's eyelids twitched and then finally opened. He immediately took visual inventory of the room. "Where's Cuddy?"

"Talking to your mother on the phone."

House grimaced sympathetically and tried to sit up a bit but broke down into another coughing fit. Wilson got the glass of water off the bedside table for him. "How are you feeling?"

"Just great. I'll be up and back terrorizing the lackeys in Princeton in no time."

"Yeah, it sounds like it." House's breathing wasn't as bad as it had been when they'd arrived last night, but nobody would have called it easy. Wilson looked up at the monitors. His fever was still over 102.

"What were you and Jensen talking about this morning?" House asked, trying to make the question casual.

Wilson immediately tensed up. "Nothing." Danny this morning was still outright psychotic, still restrained for his own safety. Jensen had said that the antipsychotic meds might take a while to work, and they would try them one at a time, giving each a chance. They were in for a long haul with no guarantee how much improvement was possible. It was no more than Wilson had expected, but hearing the clinical report, even delivered with Jensen's sympathetic eyes behind it, had left him raw and wounded.

House gingerly reached out with his right arm and hit the bed controls, raising the head of the bed a little. Wilson was just a fraction too late to realize what he wanted and help. "Yeah," the diagnostician remarked, "it really looked like nothing."

Wilson turned back toward the window. "It was a private conversation, House. I'd think you knew the definition of privacy."

"I do, but I don't know about you."

Wilson jumped at the accusation. "I'm sorry, damn it!" He saw House flinch but too late to retract the phrase. "Look, I've apologized for last Saturday. I don't know what else to do. I'd take it back if I could. But my conversation with Jensen this morning is NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS. You don't HAVE to know every little detail of everything. Life isn't just a puzzle."

"If I could trust that it really was none of my business, I might accept that, but based on your recent track record, can you blame me?" House broke off coughing again just as Cuddy came back into the room. She had heard their raised voices several feet down the hall.

"Boys! Keep it down." She closed the door of the room. "Are you all right, House?"

He had just about stopped coughing. "Other than wondering which of my secrets are being passed around now, I'm just peachy."

Wilson stared. "You think Jensen and I were talking about _you?_"

Cuddy sighed. "House, I understand how you might have thought that, but would you take my word that Wilson's conversation with Dr. Jensen was about something else entirely? They weren't talking about you."

She saw the lightning fast emotional storm flicker through his eyes, hurt at first that Cuddy obviously knew this important other matter while Wilson didn't want him to, then resignation, then just weariness. "Okay," he said softly. He turned away from them both and closed his eyes again.

Cuddy implored Wilson by expression. She knew why he was delaying telling House, but keeping clearly important matters from him under the current House-Wilson circumstances wasn't improving his health any, either. Wilson spread his hands silently, then sighed. "They found my brother," he said flatly.

House's eyes snapped open again. "The one you've been looking for for years?"

"Right. He came in last night as a psychotic John Doe. Jensen got him as a patient. I tripped over his identity last night and saw him briefly, and Jensen was giving me an update this morning. That's all it was. It had nothing to do with you."

House's tone softened a bit. "How is he?"

"Right now, he's been 96'd. They're going to try medicines, try to stabilize him, but he's been off all treatment since I was in med school." Wilson sat down heavily in the chair. "I just didn't want you wasting your energy trying to diagnose and help him. Psych isn't your field, and you half killed yourself last week on Rachel. I need at least ONE of the sick people in my life to get better." He buried his face in his hands.

There was a moment's silence. "Jensen is good," House said finally, in a Housian attempt at encouragement. He then, also typical House, turned the subject, but he realized as well as Cuddy that Wilson had had enough for now. "How did the talk go with my mother?"

Cuddy grinned. "I hung up on her."

House's tone was awed. "Cuddy, I love you," he said quickly, then caught himself just after. For a minute, they just looked at each other. "So, you didn't give away the secret location?"

"No, the coordinates are secure," she said jokingly, but her eyes were locked on his, and their expression was anything but joking.

After a few seconds, House gave her a quick smile, then turned to Wilson, who was still sitting in the chair with his face in his hands. "Wilson. Wilson!" Wilson looked up. "Think. Did you at any point last Saturday mention Middletown or Dr. Jensen by name to my mother?"

Wilson ran back through that afternoon, trying desperately to talk Blythe out of her plans to confront House. "I . . . don't think so," he said.

"Let's hope things are okay then for the moment. Hell to pay when we all get back to Princeton, but hell can be delayed. It's already hell, so who cares about the late fees?" His tone sounded more like himself, but he leaned his head back into the pillow again. He was still absolutely exhausted. He could tell it would take him a while to recover from last week. But Rachel was worth it, and at some point, on an occasion like he had planned, which did NOT include any of them being hospitalized, he would give the bear to Rachel, and Cuddy would understand.

He hadn't realized his eyes had drifted shut again until Cuddy said. "Just go back to sleep, House. I'll wake you up."

"I know," he said without opening his eyes. "Night."

She brushed his cheek with the back of her hand. "Pleasant dreams." She pulled out her cell phone, set the alarm, then curled up in her chair. "I think I'll get some more sleep while he does. Are you okay, Wilson?"

He nodded. "Think I'll go down to the cafeteria." He bought himself a late breakfast sandwich there, making a note to bring Cuddy and possibly House some food later, making House's fairly bland, no doubt to his disgust. At least the physicians had shelved the plans for the moment to do an endoscopy. His hemoglobin had been stable on heavy medication since last night, and he had not required a transfusion; he had apparently dodged another bullet and avoided outright bleeding ulcers. Of course, House's nutrition or lack thereof this last week could also be a contributing cause to anemia. He probably needed to try to eat something. Wilson bringing food to his friends sounded refreshingly normal.

Wilson wondered if life could ever again return to anything near normal.

(H/C)

Back in House's apartment, Blythe agitated through it like a tornado. There had to be SOME way to tell where Greg was. She was tired of this, tired of everyone else trying to shut her out of her son's life. She finally started going through his things, looking for a clue. She wasn't prying, after all, she was his _mother_. A shopping bag tucked in the corner of the closet and looking hidden yielded only a teddy bear, which she tossed casually aside - a bear? Greg didn't even LIKE teddy bears. She found no convenient clues in the pockets of any of his jackets or pants, but in his desk, she finally found a post-it note in his handwriting with no name, simply an address, the date of last Saturday, and a time. This had to be where he was last weekend. Maybe he had retreated there again. It was as good a bet as any.

She flipped on the desk computer and went to Mapquest, entering the address, and printing off precise directions to Middletown, New York.

Nobody else was going to keep her from details about her son. She had been absent for too long in his life. She would let him go slowly, as he had asked, but she had a lot to make up for, and this time, she would be there for him.


	30. Chapter 30

Short one. Hate to break it here, but that's all the time I had. Patience is a virtue, you know. :) I love Jensen.

(H/C)

Jensen was on late lunch break eating a sandwich at his desk and reading a professional magazine when what sounded like a volcano eruption came from the outer office. "WHERE IS MY SON?"

Jensen hit his feet with haste and was already most of the way to the closed inner office door when the intercom on his desk beeped. "Dr. Jensen!" The secretary sounded pleading.

He opened the door and stepped out next to her desk. "It's okay, Janice," he said, and she sat back with relief as Blythe nearly knocked Jensen over on her approach, not through aggression but simply through agitation.

"Is he here? I NEED to find him. Everybody's keeping him away from me, but I'm his MOTHER!"

Jensen had her identified pretty securely, but he didn't make the assumption, just on the far chance that he was wrong. Instead, he held out his hand, as if they had just been introduced at a social function. "I'm Michael Jensen. Pleased to meet you."

She responded automatically, derailed momentarily in mid rant. "Blythe House. It's a pleasure." With that over, she jumped straight back to the topic at hand. "I WANT TO SEE MY SON. I know he was here. I found this address on a note when I searched his desk this morning."

"You realize that I cannot give you personal details about any of my patients."

"I don't want DETAILS, I want to SEE HIM! Lisa has him somewhere, and she wouldn't even tell me. She even hung up on me. I'm his MOTHER!"

The secretary by this point was watching this like a sporting event, but she had the discretion that Blythe clearly completely lacked. She might consider it an interesting interlude to her work day, but nothing would go any further. Jensen cut across Blythe's ongoing rant. "Mrs. House!" It almost had a military edge to it, his usually pleasant voice not annoyed but firm, and she immediately fell silent. "Your son is not here."

Blythe looked around the office as if he were lying. "Where is he?"

"I can't tell you that."

"But you know, don't you? Everybody knows EXCEPT me. I'm his MOTHER!" Off she went, ramping up again, and Jensen gave her a few seconds and then stopped her again.

"Mrs. House!" She responded instantly. "Why don't you go into my office here, and we'll talk a bit. I didn't have another appointment for an hour."

Blythe hesitated. What she wanted was her son, but she also realized that she was closer on the trail here than she had been to date. This man knew where he was. Trying to convince him to share that would be more likely to succeed than just driving around the streets of a fair-sized city. "Okay," she said after a few seconds. Jensen held the door for her, started in behind her, then stopped.

"I'll be back in a minute; I need to fetch his chart to remind myself of a few details. Have a seat wherever you like. There's coffee in the machine in the corner if you wish." Blythe automatically headed that way, and Jensen verified that his desk had nothing confidential on it at the moment, closed the office door, retreated to the far side of the room, shared a sympathetic smile with his secretary, and pulled out his cell phone.

It took her a minute to answer. "Dr. Cuddy."

"Dr. Cuddy, this is Dr. Jensen. I need to speak to Dr. House."

He could hear the protective fires flare up a bit. "He's asleep. I don't want to wake him up; he needs all the rest he can get."

"I'm sorry, but this is quite urgent." He let that stand without further explanation, and after a moment, she relented.

"Hang on." She clearly put the phone down, but he heard her voice still at more distance. "House? House, you need to wake up. Come on."

After a small delay, his voice came. "Is it an hour and a half already?"

"No. I apologize, but Dr. Jensen is on the phone. He says he needs to speak with you urgently." The phone rattled, and then House's voice came.

"What's going on?"

"Your mother just arrived at my office."

"How? Wilson. He said he didn't think he'd mentioned Middletown."

"No, Dr. House, it wasn't Dr. Wilson. She apparently was going through your desk and found the address written down." Jensen could almost feel the shock waves of violation.

"Probably went through the rest of my apartment, too."

"I have no doubt she did, but she was fixated on one fact, your current location. I imagine anything else she found wouldn't even register, would just be considered irrelevant. Anyway, I have her here. She doesn't know where you are, but she might well think of trying the hospital sooner or later. I would strongly suggest that you call the information desk and request that they add your name to the block information list. Also, I need your permission to talk to her." Jensen heard the silence increase in volume, and he quickly jumped in to explain. "I will not reveal any details from our sessions to her. I also will make it clear that I am not seeing her in a physician-patient context, so her confidentiality will not apply, unlike yours. I will tell you everything later on. I'd like to try to help with this situation, but I do need you to be aware that I'm talking to her."

A moment, and then the smallest flicker of humor entered House's voice. "If you want to beat your head against my brick wall for a while, I have no problems with it. Good luck."

"Thank you. I have a feeling I might need it."

"Since you're not seeing her as a patient, you can add the time to my bill."

"I'll do that," Jensen replied. House knew that Jensen wasn't doing this for money, but he needed to respond to the obligation somehow, to not have it hanging over his head. For House, that qualified as thanks. "I'll talk to you later, and I will tell you everything that happens, and whatever suggestions or techniques I draw from that."

"Let us know you're still alive, if nothing else. I'll call the information desk." House clicked the phone shut. Jensen went over to the file shelf, pulled out a folder, and headed for his inner office.

"Good luck," the secretary said sotto voce as he passed her.

Jensen turned to smile at her. "If you haven't heard from me in an hour, send in a search party," he joked.

He entered his office. Blythe was sitting at the chair closest to the desk, like Wilson had, but she did have a cup of coffee, and the magazines on his desk looked untouched. He'd figured that telling her House's file was outside, and thus not in here, would be enough to forestall further riffling at the moment. She wasn't curious; she was simply fixated on one objective in a naive, oblivious way. Jensen poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down behind the desk, facing her, giving her a smile. "Now, Mrs. House. Let's talk."


	31. Chapter 31

"First," Jensen said, "I need to make it clear to you that you are not a patient of mine. I cannot promise confidentiality regarding our conversation."

Blythe, as expected, didn't even blink at that. "I don't care about confidentiality, I just want my son! I have nothing at all to hide." A statement which made to any psychiatrist immediately raises doubts as to either the other person's honesty or their reality orientation.

"Why do you want to see him?" Jensen asked.

"To take care of him; Lisa said this morning he was sick. And I still need to apologize. I need to make it right."

"Have you apologized to him in the last week?"

"Oh yes, several times, but I must not have done it right. Things are still so awkward, even when he's trying to talk to me."

"What was his reaction to your apologies?"

Blythe stopped in her rant for a minute, the question forcing her to take time to think. "The first time, he basically went crazy and ran out of the apartment. He nearly hit me then, but I don't think he was trying to, just wanted out. The next time, in the ER, I started to apologize, and he pushed me into a closet and said if I ever made a public scene, he'd never speak to me again. He said that he needed time. He did agree to talk to me then, but only 5 minutes at a time when he wasn't busy." She looked around, suddenly nervous. "Is this a public scene, do you think?"

"No. In the middle of the ER, definitely yes. You do realize how embarrassing that must have been for him, in front of his coworkers and people he sees daily?"

"I didn't think of it at the time." She twisted her watch around her wrist. "Where IS he? Lisa said he was sick, and all last week, every time I saw him, he looked worse. He needs me right now."

"Why?"

The question startled her. "Because I'm his MOTHER," she said, as if it were the most obvious thing on earth. "Nobody else can take care of you like a mother can."

"Interesting theory. Has your son ever been hospitalized in his life?"

"Oh, several times. He went to the ER a lot when he was a kid - I guess that was John's fault, but I just through Greg was clumsy. That's what he always said himself. And he had appendicitis as a teenager, and then he had pneumonia once. And his leg, of course. He was hospitalized for a few weeks there and was still going to rehab for months. He got shot a few years ago by a patient's husband, and of course, there was his fractured skull from the bus accident last year."

Jensen suppressed his reaction at that shopping list, which he would have bet wasn't even close to complete. He was on a mission here, and fishing wasn't it. "Let's take appendicitis as an example. When he got appendicitis, what did you do?"

"I took him to the ER, and they admitted him and did surgery."

"And no doubt you signed a consent form for the surgery."

"Yes, of course." She looked around the office again. "Is this accomplishing anything?"

That remains to be seen, Jensen thought. "Why did you consent to surgery?"

The man could really ask the most stupid questions. "Because he had appendicitis. He needed his appendix taken out."

"Why didn't you do it yourself?"

She gaped at him. "I'm not a doctor! I'd never try something like that. That's absurd."

"But you just said that nobody else can take care of you like a mother can. Do you agree that in that case, in order to start getting well, your son needed a surgeon just then more than he needed his mother?"

She blinked, considering it. "I . . . suppose so." She really wasn't very quick on the uptake at all. It at least made it easier to lay groundwork to points without her catching on as to his direction. Whether those points would register when made was another matter.

"So occasionally, there are physical injuries or illnesses that require the services of a professional and are beyond you?"

"I . . . guess."

"Just as there are physical illnesses, there are mental illnesses which also require _professional_ help. To try to make those all better as a layman, even a well-intentioned one, usually does more harm than good."

She considered that for a minute, then said, "Is Greg really that sick?"

"You mentioned that he went crazy when you first apologized. During that episode, how disturbed did he seem to you?"

She shuddered. "I've never seen anything like that. I was holding onto him, trying to apologize, and he just lost it. He hurt himself more than me trying to get away." She diverted back to her main point. "So I still need to apologize, because he didn't seem to hear me that time. Or later that week. Things still aren't right."

Jensen gave a mental sigh. "Mrs. House, I want to show you something." He slipped off his jacket, unbuttoned his cuff, and rolled up his right sleeve to above the elbow, revealing an ugly scarred area in mid forearm.

She was startled out of her fixation at least briefly. "What did you do? That looks like it hurt."

"It hurt like nothing else in my life. That's from when I was a child. We were on a family camping trip. My twin brother was sitting next to the campfire as I walked by, and he stuck out a foot to trip me, just as a joke, understand, just horsing around like boys do. He never meant anything by it. I fell, and my outstretched arm landed in the campfire directly on a burning log. Third-degree burns. I was in the hospital, and it required multiple skin grafts. It's all healed, but it still burns a little bit once in a while, like the nerve endings remembering what happened decades ago."

Blythe looked honestly sympathetic. "That's awful."

"Yes, it was. My brother was crushed. He'd just been playing, and he wound up seriously hurting me, although he didn't mean to. He couldn't stop apologizing. While we were driving to the hospital, while we were in the ER, while I was in so much pain I couldn't see straight, he was there saying over and over, 'I'm sorry, Michael. I didn't mean it.' I finally after a week told him that it was okay and I understood, just to make him shut up. But actually, having that chorus of apology going on while I was dealing with the acute pain just made things worse. I was already at overload on what I was feeling right then, just physically. His repeated apology wore down my last nerve." He looked directly at her. "But I lied. I knew my brother hadn't meant to hurt me like that, but it wasn't okay, and I resented it for quite a while. Thinking how he should have been more careful, shouldn't have tried something like that right by the fire. I needed to blame the pain on somebody, and he was the best candidate. Your son, Mrs. House, is being more honest than I was. He hasn't told you everything was okay, because everything isn't okay. And I'm afraid nothing you do or say can undo the past. You cannot make it right. It's impossible." He raised his scarred arm. "I have forgiven my brother long since, and we're great friends, but you notice that I still have the scar, and it will never go away. Just like your son has wounds and scars, some of them finally undergoing acute treatment, and even when they are better, they will still be scars. Nothing you can do will ever give you a second shot on his childhood."

Blythe was looking helpless. "But . . . I feel like I need to do something."

Jensen rolled his sleeve back down. "The best thing you can do for your son right now is give him space. That's hard for you, I know. You are a talker and a toucher, but think back to your son's childhood, even in the happy moments. He was more detached and thoughtful, kept to himself, just sat and observed people. Right?"

She nodded, remembering. "When we would go to a function, he'd barely say two words all night. Of course he couldn't at the table, because children should be seen and not heard, you know. John always enforced that. But even when he could have done things, he would sit and watch, but you could tell that the world was going on behind those eyes. Never missed anything. He was the _brightest_ kid, and he could get impatient with people slower than he was. He loved going for walks, or running, or rock-climbing, but it was never just for physical health, not like John's exercise programs. He was out exploring, looking for things that were interesting." She sighed. "And maybe avoiding his father."

"Probably right on both counts. People are great at multi-tasking." Jensen leaned over the desk a little bit, engaging her eyes. "But Mrs. House, I can tell you that if you insist on pushing forward and trying to make things right all at once, you might well wind up breaking your son's health, physical and mental."

She twisted her watch around her wrist again. "I just want things to be . . . "

"You want a second shot at his childhood, to avoid repeating your mistakes. But in that quest, you're making new ones. Do you remember what happened with your son's leg?"

She nodded. "He wouldn't let them amputate, but Stacy authorized a surgery anyway. He never forgave her, even though she saved his life."

"By taking away his choice. Once people are adults, they have the right to make their own health care decisions, even if we disagree. Assuming they are of sound mind," he added, remembering Danny on the psych ward. "But assume that Stacy apologized to him - which she probably did."

Blythe nodded. "Several times that I heard."

"So why does he still have pain and the problems with his leg? She apologized. Do you think if he had actually forgiven her, if he could forgive her today, that he suddenly wouldn't have problems with his leg anymore?"

"No." She twisted her hands. "Why are you doing this? You're saying there's NOTHING I can ever do."

"No, I'm not. I'm saying that it's going to take much longer than you think, that it won't be recapturing his childhood anyway, and that right now is a time to leave the repair work to professionals. I actually think that you and your son could have a decent relationship down the road, probably closer than you ever have - but it will not be recovering his childhood."

She studied her hands. "You really think we could ever be friends?"

"Yes, I do. It won't be like you imagine it, but reality is often better than imagination. But right now, you must give him space."

She suddenly remembered her coffee cup and gulped down the rest, which was going cold. "He is okay, isn't he? Physically? He did look awful on Friday."

"He's getting better."

"Why can he talk to Lisa and James but not me?"

"Probably because I imagine they are willing to let it take time. Back off, Mrs. House. You'll wind up with a better relationship that way than you ever would have by trying to make it right all at once."

She sighed. "I never knew. I swear, I never knew."

"I believe you," Jensen assured her. "One thing that I would recommend is that you find a counselor or psychiatrist yourself and talk about this. Not only would it help you greatly, but I guarantee that that step would very much impress your son."

"I'll . . . think about it." She twisted the watch around again. "John wasn't really his father, you know. He's actually a lot like his real dad."

"Have you talked to him about his real dad?"

"Not really. I mean, he knew him as one of John's friends. He might even have worked it out himself; he always was good at analyzing things."

"Try talking to him about his real father, telling him how they're alike. Try talking to him about any subject besides what your husband did. On that one, you MUST let him set the timetable. And I'd recommend stopping apologizing for the moment. You'll never make it right by that, and like I said, he's at least being honest in refusing to tell you that it does. To keep harping on that will only rub his nerves raw, and he's under quite enough stress anyway."

She nodded reluctantly. "Why do you suppose John did that? How could anybody do that? James said John literally nailed Greg to the floor for several hours once. That's not right."

"No," said Jensen. "It's not. Your husband obviously had serious issues of his own, but that doesn't excuse his actions."

"Greg said that it helped having me not know while he was growing up. That he had one thing at least that seemed normal." She finally let go of the watch orbiting her wrist. "You really think we can be friends?"

"Yes. You can't make it right, but you can, eventually, be friends. However close of friends you are is up to you, and him, and time. Whatever you wind up having, it should be better than the past, because it will be based on truth this time."

She nodded. "Thank you, Dr. Jensen." She stood up, and Jensen did likewise. "I really wish I could see him right now, though."

"I know, but it's better that you don't. For his sake." He came around the desk and offered his hand, and she shook it. "Please, Mrs. House, look into therapy for yourself when you get back to your own home. It will help. You clearly need to talk about a lot of things, and your son at the moment is the wrong person to go through everything with."

"I'll . . . think about it." Jensen opened the office door, and she went out.

The secretary watched her leave the office quietly, then turned back to face Jensen in the doorway. "Wow!"

"It won't all last," Jensen said. "Not with that one, not from one talk. I just hope enough of it does. Let me know when my next appointment gets here, Janice."

"I will, Dr. Jensen."

Jensen walked back into his office, got a cup of water, and gulped it down. He then called Cuddy's cell phone again. "He's asleep again," she said firmly. "He fought it, but he's still totally worn out. How did the talk with his mother go?"

Since House had obviously passed the earlier topic on, Jensen decided he was safe enough giving her a message instead of disturbing House again. "We talked. Some progress, I think, but she is going to be a hard case to deal with. I don't think she'll try the hospital at the moment, but at least they won't say he's a patient or give out his room number if she does."

"I'd like to see her try to get in this room," Cuddy said, with rods of absolute steel in her voice.

Jensen grinned. "I have appointments the rest of the afternoon, but I'll come by the hospital after I leave the office, and I'll tell Dr. House about everything then. About 6:30, probably."

"I'll pass the message along," Cuddy said.

"Thank you." Jensen ended the call, then sat back in his desk chair for a minute, just breathing. After a short while, he got up and picked the guitar off its holder on the wall, and then he sat down on the couch, letting his fingers strum idly over the chords, refocusing and re-energizing himself for his remaining appointments this afternoon.


	32. Chapter 32

Jensen entered House's room at just after 6:30 that night and studied House and then the monitors. His fever was 101.6 now. Slowly, it was continuing to fall. His color looked a little better, too, apart from the bruises, and his breathing, while not easy, was easier. "How are you feeling?"

"Still alive and better all the time," House replied a bit impatiently.

Jensen looked at the two other occupants of the room. "Would you rather have this talk alone?"

Cuddy immediately sat a bit straighter in her chair. "He's still not in half as good shape as he's pretending to be. We'll stay." Having come so close to losing House now, she wanted to keep an eye on him, especially when she knew they would be talking about stressful subjects.

"I'll keep that in mind, but I asked him," Jensen pointed out. "Do you want them here for this, Dr. House?" His tone was absolutely neutral, not assuming either way.

House hesitated, looking down at his hands. His expression was clear to read by his friends, though. He really would prefer to have privacy, but he was uncertain how to ask outright and not sure they'd listen, anyway.

Cuddy felt a pang run through her, now adding hurt to concern. How long would it take him to trust them again? "Do you want us here, House?" she repeated, trying to force herself to match Jensen's objective tone..

He still looked torn. "You have to tell them," Jensen prompted.

"It's . . . it's just easier to talk with one person at a time when I don't know where exactly we're going. I'll give you a summary later," he said. He raised his eyes from his lap and looked directly at Cuddy, pleading silently for understanding.

She sighed. Part of her could understand that, but part of her was still hurt, too. Wilson stood up. "Come on, Cuddy. Let's go down to the cafeteria."

"Yes, I'll go there and find you as soon as I leave. I haven't eaten yet myself, just had a snack earlier," Jensen said.

Reluctantly, she stood, and her look at Jensen was pure unveiled threat. "You be careful with him," she warned.

"I will," Jensen promised her. With a final look at House, she left the room, half propelled by Wilson.

"Damn," House mumbled. "Hurt her again . . . but I can't . . ."

"I know," Jensen replied. "Believe me, the vast majority of people find it easier to start opening up in private sessions than in a group at first, and opening up with those closest to you is the hardest of all. It's perfectly understandable that you want to hear this alone. I even think it's preferable, knowing where we're going, which you don't exactly yet." House was still eying his hands, fiddling with the end of the cast. "I really am impressed with Dr. Cuddy," Jensen continued. "Quite a strong woman."

House relaxed instantly. "She is that. You should see her at the hospital. I think she could deal with anything. Except . . . "

"Except?"

"The one thing I've really seen get her rattled is that she can't have kids. I was helping her with injections on that for a while. Then she had an adoption fall through at the last minute, shortly before she got Rachel. She was devastated."

"How did you respond to that?" Jensen thought it was revealing again that even full of anxious curiosity about his mother, House could be diverted so easily to the subject of Cuddy.

"I went to her house that night and . . . I kissed her. Told her she should keep trying, that she'd be a great mother."

'That sounds like a perfect response. Why does telling her that bother you?"

House switched from fiddling with the end of his cast to fiddling with the IV line, pulling the slack over to reach his fingers. Jensen waited. "Once . . . I told her she would be a lousy mother."

"Did you believe that?"

"No."

"Then why did you say it?"

"I just wanted to hurt her. I was in pain; they were trying again to take me off the pain pills. I lashed out."

Again? "They being Dr. Cuddy and Dr. Wilson? They've tried to forceably get you off pain pills against your will?" House nodded. Jensen concealed his reaction. Talk about a strategy that was totally doomed to failure. Having seen his leg, far worse than Jensen's own scar, Jensen was quite willing to believe that his physical pain was real. But whether it was real or not, whether the use of pain pills was excessive or not, attempting forceable detox on anybody is guaranteed to backfire. Nobody stays off substances until they have decided for themselves that they want to, and no rehab program in the country will truly work until then. It was a decision that cannot successfully be made by others on someone's behalf. "So, under extreme physical stress and pain, you lashed out at her. I'm sure she knew the cause, but it still was a harsh and hurtful statement. Did you apologize to her later?" House shook his head. "Why not?"

"Doesn't make any difference. My Dad was right. Sorry doesn't mean anything." He shuddered suddenly, remembering the stairs, and Jensen reached out and carefully pulled the IV line away from him.

"You're clamping down too hard on that. You're going to shut off the flow." House looked at his hands, surprised. He hadn't realized his grip had tightened. "But you did tell her later that she would be a great mother. You canceled your earlier statement, even if you didn't apologize for it."

"Do you think I should apologize?"

"Not when the act of apology has such repercussions of your father for you. At some point in the future, when that gets better, at a point when you can sincerely focus on it with no overtone of memories, yes, I think she would appreciate it. But I also think she's forgiven you long since. She knows you were reacting out of pain. I also think that you do apologize to people, just not in words. That's not saying that words aren't important, but you have not been the total failure in that department that you think you are."

House considered that for a moment, then predictably dodged off that subject, having enough to think about there. "So how did it go with my mother?"

"She started out saying she needed to apologize, and that she needed to see you. I think she wanted to bring you chicken soup or such. She was saying that nobody can care for someone like a mother can, and I used an illustration to try to prove to her that sometimes professionals are needed. I asked her why she didn't try surgery on you herself when you had appendicitis." House shuddered, obviously picturing that scenario. "I then extended that to mental health, as well, and tried to convince her that a layman cannot just fix some things and that efforts will just make things worse."

"Was she listening?"

"She got a little more focused as we went on, but she is totally fixated on 'making it right.' Very emotional and naive, as you described her. I think by the end of our talk, she was willing to leave things alone at the moment, but I also think that that is not going to last." Jensen unbuttoned his cuff and rolled up his sleeve. "I showed her this scar and told her the story behind it."

Interesting the different reactions between mother and son. Blythe's immediate reaction had been sympathy for the pain, while House's was analytical curiosity. He reached out right-handed to capture Jensen's wrist and pull the arm over closer for examination. "Third-degree burn, multiple skin grafts, several years old."

"Correct. It happened when I was a child on a camping trip, and my twin brother tripped me in play, causing me to fall into the fire. I landed with my arm directly on a burning log." Jensen felt House shy mentally like a spooked horse. "What is it?" House's grip tightened down painfully on Jensen's wrist, but Jensen made no attempt to pull away. "We're still here, Dr. House. The past is over."

House released his wrist after a minute, the gaze becoming somewhat less fixed. "Could I . . . have a drink of water?"

"Certainly." Jensen picked up the cup from the nightstand and offered it to him. House took a few gulps, then gave it back.

"Camping," he said after a minute. "When we went camping, Dad would . . . tie me up. He'd put me right by the fire. He'd tell Marine stories, how prisoners of war were tortured, and he'd talk about burning my fingers and toes off. . . never did it, but he'd say it. Just to watch me squirm." Jensen sat quietly, just listening, and was both surprised and pleased at House's next reaction. "That bastard! He had no right." House's voice rose a bit, echoed by the heart rate and blood pressure on the monitor.

Jensen ran a soothing hand down his arm. "Try to relax, Dr. House. Remember, you're still sick. But that's excellent. Do you realize what you're doing?" House looked at him, confused. "You're getting mad at him. Not afraid, but mad. Right from the middle of memories. That's progress."

House analyzed that for a minute, then as usual jumped tracks again when he had something he'd need time to think over. "What happened with your brother?"

Jensen fast-forwarded over the rest of the camping background. "He apologized. Over and over and over. In the car on the way to the hospital, in the ER. Before surgery. When they visited me right after surgery. It was like a waterfall. I was in hideous pain, and he just wanted to apologize until I told him everything was fine."

House gave a sympathetic half-smirk. "This sounds familiar. What did you do?"

"After a week, I told him everything was perfectly okay, just to make him shut up."

"After a week?"

Jensen nodded. "Of course, it wasn't perfectly okay. I was mad at him for quite a while. Deliberate or not, it was quite careless, and he should have known better. But I bottled that resentment up. I was using that story with your mother to show her two things, first that apologies don't just undo pain and make everything okay without a scar, and second that you were being more honest than I was." House's eyes widened a bit in surprise. "You won't tell her it's all okay."

"Well, it's not."

"Precisely. That's good. What she wants to hear isn't reality. Feeding somewhat what they want to hear just because they want to hear it, even when it's untrue, is not doing them a favor." Jensen paused, then plunged on toward what he had anticipated would be a major rapid in the river of this conversation. He had, though, promised House he'd tell him everything. "Then I asked her if she remembered what happened with your leg." House immediately tensed up, his expression going blank. "I saw it in the ER the other night." Jensen looked at his own scar. He at least just had scarred skin and tissue. The site of the indentation, the missing muscle in House's leg was far worse. "We needed to know the history of the injury, to help in evaluating the current injuries from the crash. The ER doctor asked me to obtain a history. It wasn't just curiosity, it was medical necessity. So I asked Dr. Wilson, and he told me."

"Knowing Wilson, he had to include the personal details as well as the medical ones," House said with an edge of bitterness.

"Yes, he did. Anyway, after asking in general to make sure she knew the personal background there, I made the point again with your mother that apologies would not undo that. That even you saying it was perfectly fine like she wants wouldn't actually erase the problems. I was trying once again, like the other illustrations, to make her see that her apologizing wasn't going to make everything right." House was still looking at his lap, fiddling lightly with the IV line again. Jensen went on. "I also, however, told her that you did have the right as an adult to make your own medical decisions, whether others agreed with them or not, and that your wishes should not have been violated." House looked back up at him, startled. That was a perspective he hadn't often heard stated, even from the few people who knew the whole story. Most people, while agreeing that Stacy had overstepped, could see her point that it had saved his life.

"Cuddy was my doctor," he offered suddenly. "Not the idiot who missed it for 3 days, but the one who took over. She disagreed with my decision on the amputation, but I do think she told Stacy she should talk to me about it. She had no choice but to proceed with the debridement, though. Stacy had every legal right with the POA."

"She did. But legal rights are not the only ones." House nodded. "Does Dr. Cuddy feel guilty about her role?"

"Cuddy probably feels guilty about running over spiders she couldn't even see on the road. I never blamed her. Blamed Stacy, yes, but never Cuddy." He jumped back to the topic of his mother. "What did my mother say to all of this?"

"She was . . . thoughtful. As thoughtful as she can get. Still quite emotional, but I think I gave her a good bit to think about. I only hope some of it sticks. She did agree at the moment to stop pushing and leave things to the professionals, and I also strongly encouraged her to get into therapy herself. Just not with me."

House smiled slightly at that last. "Bet you had no idea what was in store when you took me on as a patient, did you?"

"It has been quite an interesting week," Jensen agreed, "but it's worth it. I never would have picked this profession if I didn't think it was worth it. Every single day. Switching to future strategies, from my observations of your mother, I'd say she definitely responds to direct, firm instruction, but she'll also need regular reminders. She'll flip back to old habits. Set limits for her and remind her of them, which will also help her remember that you are an adult now. I also think that you need to tell her yourself directly to leave Princeton. Don't ask her; tell her. Your own recovery will not be as easy with her around, and her recovery won't start while she's so close to you geographically as well as emotionally. She needs to get into therapy elsewhere, where she can focus on her own problems."

House sighed. "I would like her out of my apartment. Okay, I'd like her back in Lexington. But I don't want to hurt her."

"Sometimes, it's necessary. I don't think she is going to hear that from anyone else other than you directly. But you don't need to do it for a few days, at least. You really do need to focus on physical improvement for the moment. You have a lot of rest to catch up on, and you must get this infection totally beaten this time."

"I know," House said softly, looking at his hands again.

"You are starting to look a bit better," Jensen remarked. "In general, that is." The bruises, of course, were still flourishing.

"They've got me on a whole long list of IV drugs, and I've basically done nothing but sleep for the past 24 hours. I'll take a pill tonight, but Cuddy's been waking me up every hour and a half today so I don't hit a nightmare, and that gives her a chance to catch some sleep, too. She's got an alarm function on her cell phone."

"Do you have an alarm function on your cell phone as well?" Jensen asked.

"Yes, but all of my things are still down in admissions somewhere. Bike wreck, remember? I'm dreading seeing what they did to my T-shirt in the ER, but Cuddy hasn't had them bring my stuff up yet. I think she's either afraid I'll have a relapse at the destruction or I'll use the street clothes to escape."

Jensen grinned at the image but stuck on the thought trail he had started out on. "I was thinking of last week. From Tuesday night on, when Dr. Cuddy's baby was brought into your hospital and you basically lived there the rest of the week, why did you not use that alarm function on your own phone? Why choose the constant nightmares? The wear and tear on yourself physically would have been still great but much less than it was if you'd just had normal naps when you could grab a chance."

House looked down at his hands. "I thought at first that I had made Cuddy's baby sick by me staying at her house last weekend."

"So you deliberately chose to punish yourself?" House didn't respond. "Were you correct in that theory?"

"No, it turns out that she had hantavirus." House's eyes lit up with both relief that it was over and interest, and for just a second, Jensen caught a glimpse of the brilliant diagnostician. "It's carried by rats and mice, and Rachel was abandoned by her birth mother and raised for the first few weeks by the people in a crack house. Cuddy went there to rescue her when we realized that my patient - that was the birth mother - had had a concealed pregnancy. The crack house was up to the usual cleanliness standards, and the virus had been incubating in Rachel for several weeks. But it cannot be passed person to person; we're a dead-end host." A touch of respect and pride crept into his voice. "It's fatal over 50% of the time, and that premature baby beat the odds. She's a fighter."

"So," Jensen said, "you were not actually at fault in her illness."

"No, I wasn't."

"When you realized that, did you start using the alarm function whenever you could catch a nap?"

"No."

"Why? At that point, you knew you weren't to blame."

House hesitated. "Just the established pattern, I guess. Once I'd picked Tuesday night which way to go, I never thought about the choice again."

"But in fact, you did not deserve to be punished. The established pattern was the incorrect response. You were punishing yourself all week for something which was not your fault, for a situation you were misreading, even when you had evidence to the contrary. Think about that the next time you feel the need to punish yourself."

House studied the cast. "I'm getting kind of tired," he said.

Jensen had no doubt it was physically true and in fact understated, but it was also a clear desire to end this session. He stood up. House really did need rest right now, and he processed better with space, anyway. "I'll find your friends in the cafeteria and send them back up. Go on to sleep, and I'll tell her when to wake you up." He turned away, leaving his patient deep in thought.

"Jensen?" House's voice stopped him when he was almost at the door.

"Yes?"

"Does your arm ever hurt still?"

"Some neuropathic tingling and burning once in a while. Nothing like your pain. Most of the time, it doesn't hurt at all."

"Um. . . thanks for today."

Jensen smiled at him. "You're welcome," he replied. He left the room and headed for the cafeteria.


	33. Chapter 33

Jensen found Cuddy and Wilson talking over coffee in the cafeteria, and after going through the line himself for his delayed dinner, he carried the tray over to their table.

"Is he okay?" Cuddy asked immediately, before Jensen could even speak.

"Yes. He went back to sleep when I left; you need to wake him up at 9:00." Cuddy looked at her watch and nodded. "It was a difficult discussion, but he handled it well. In a perfect world, I would not have insisted on a session with him tonight, given his physical condition, but . . ."

"It's not a perfect world," Wilson completed, thinking of Danny.

"Exactly," Jensen agreed. "His mother pretty much forced my hand today."

"You're getting a run for your money with us, aren't you?" Wilson noted with an apologetic look. "Have you had any further updates on Danny?"

"I'm going to go check on him as soon as I finish eating. I hadn't had dinner yet."

Wilson pushed his chair back from the table. "I think I'm going to go get my bag out of the car, find the doctors' locker room, and take a shower. Do you want me to get your bag, too, Cuddy?"

"Yes, please. I'll take a shower either tonight or in the morning. Thanks."

"Call my cell phone once you've seen Danny," Wilson asked.

"I will," Jensen promised. Wilson left them, and Cuddy looked at her watch again and stared into her coffee. Her mind and her heart were back up in House's room, but her body was also aware of the symbolic appropriateness of some distance. "The fact that he wanted to talk to me alone doesn't mean he doesn't trust you," Jensen said.

She sighed. "I know. I understand, and I keep trying to tell myself that. Honestly, I'm amazed he's opening up to you as well as he is. This is _totally_ new ground for him, and Lord knows he's got enough to work through. I'm trying not to push him, and I keep telling myself not to take things personally. But it still hurts some. I wish he'd let me help him more."

"How long has he been actually facing, admitting, and attempting to deal with things?" Jensen asked her.

"About three and a half weeks. I know, it's ridiculous to measure that against decades of shoving everything under the rug and blocking it out. But he seemed to be opening up better before a week ago. Wilson really knocked things off track. I feel like I'm being punished for what he did." She twisted her coffee cup in a circle. "And then there are things that apparently have nothing to do with his father, and he STILL won't tell me about them. Last night, when he was delirious, he was mumbling something about a bear, obviously fixated on that idea. It really seemed to mean something to him, not just be imaginary. I asked him this morning, and he totally shut down on me. Not emotionally upset at all, and he even said he didn't have a teddy bear in childhood. It wasn't anything like his reaction to memories. He just calmly decided to keep something away from me that doesn't even matter! Now _that _hurts."

"How do you know it doesn't matter?" Jensen asked.

Cuddy looked startled. "Okay, that was an assumption. I guess the fact that something isn't related to his childhood doesn't mean that it has no meaning at all. I just felt like he was shutting me out." She twisted the coffee cup some more. "He can be SO frustrating sometimes. And then he'll do something like the desk that's the most romantic gift I've ever had."

"The desk?"

"My office was being renovated after a gunman had held House and some others hostage in there and destroyed it a few months back." Jensen was beginning to wonder exactly how thick a truly complete history on House would be. The way that Cuddy could casually mention being held hostage and his mother could note in passing fractured skulls and being shot by relatives of former patients was revealing. Had House truly been at risk often enough even in adulthood that they all thought it was standard for him? Cuddy was continuing. "Anyway, I had ordered a new desk, but House called my mother and paid to have my old desk from med school taken out of storage, refinished, and shipped to Princeton. He shipped a solid wood desk. I can only imagine what that cost." She sighed. "And then I totally ignored him after that and never said thanks. He said recently that he thought I hadn't liked it, thought he'd failed."

"Why didn't you thank him?"

She abruptly put up a few walls herself. "Just a stupid misunderstanding. We've settled it now. At least I think we have. And then there was last Friday, before Wilson screwed everything up on Saturday. That was the most perfect date I have ever been on in my life. I feel sometimes like with House, it's taking one step forward and two back. And I have no idea why I'm telling you all of this." She suddenly gave a sad smile. "You know, though, I'm glad I set that stupid trip wire on him. I never would have really understood where he's coming from, what all was kept hidden all these years, without that. I should have put it together before, but I'm glad it happened then, at least. I'm sorry I hurt him, but I didn't realize how hurt he was anyway." She looked at her watch. "I'd better get back up to check on him. Dr. Jensen, do you think he can ever get past all of this?"

Jensen nodded. "I definitely think he can process things and move on. But there will always be scars. It will never be perfectly all right."

"I realize that. I'm not his mother." She offered her hand across the table, and he shook it. "And thank you _so _much for intervening with his mother when she got dumped in your lap today."

"I was glad to be able to help, temporarily at least. And Dr. Cuddy?" She had started to turn away but stopped at the call and looked back. "You are dealing remarkably well with everything. Your instincts with him are spot-on; you two obviously have a strong bond already. You are helping him immeasurably, just by being there for him. Don't talk yourself into doubting how well you are fulfilling your role."

Cuddy abruptly felt tears welling up and blinked them back. Just to have someone tell her she was doing a good job with the wreck of the past few weeks was like a soothing balm on her soul. "Thank you," she said. Jensen gave her a smile in response, and she returned it before turning away again, heading back to House.

(H/C)

Back up in House's room, Cuddy anxiously studied his face and then the monitors. He looked tired, even more tired than he had earlier, but everything seemed to be stable, even if not normal. She watched him for a few minutes, then softly pulled out her cell phone and called PPTH for an update on Rachel for about the fifth time that day. It was the same as the last ones; Rachel was doing well, all vitals normal now, hopefully could be released after another few days of observation.

Wilson came in with wet hair and put down Cuddy's bag and his own next to the window. "Feel better?" she asked.

He nodded. "Amazing what a shower can do for you, but I think both of us need a solid night's sleep tonight."

"I think tonight, we might be able to get one. When he wakes up, we'll give him the zolpidem." She dribbled her fingers on the arm of the chair. "I was just thinking about next week. I'd like to get House back to Princeton, but there's his mother, too, and transferring him to our hospital would be harder to keep as a safe zone than transferring him to my place."

"He needs to stay on the IV antibiotics several days this time," Wilson pointed out. "I know he made several mistakes last week, but I think a big one at the beginning was immediately stopping the IV antibiotics as soon as he started getting better."

"I can handle IVs there. I'm thinking of taking next week off myself, on the pretext of wanting to watch Rachel closely for a few more days after her release, since she was so sick. Nobody would question that. I can just tell them that House is sick and will be out for several days."

"And nobody who saw him last week would question that," Wilson agreed. "There's also the bruises and injuries from the crash. If he goes to either PPTH or his apartment where his mother is, people will know something else happened. His mother would flip, and the hospital grapevine would take off again. More private at your place, if you think you can manage things medically there." He hesitated. "I'd be willing to help, if you think I would."

Cuddy was still somewhat annoyed at Wilson, but she was beginning to feel that he'd done his penance, too. He always had had good intentions, and he definitely realized how totally he had messed up. "It's up to him," she said, nodding toward House. "I don't have a problem with it. I'd appreciate your help."

Wilson fiddled nervously with his fingers. "I'm talking to Jensen about working out the triggers, the things that make me want to jump in and make decisions for people. I'm really trying on this." He hesitated. "I'm also supposed to be writing Danny a letter - that assignment came before we found him, but Jensen wants me to finish it anyway. I was . . . thinking of writing one to House, too." He looked at Cuddy, wanting her opinion of this.

She was surprised. "I think . . . I think that might be a good idea. He's so hard to talk to directly at times. I do think it would mean something to him, but I doubt you'd get one in return."

"I know. House doesn't work like that. I was just thinking . . . about the DBS, Amber, the funeral, this week, the Addison's patient. Everything. Maybe he'd believe me if I wrote it all down."

She smiled at him. "I'm impressed. You really are trying to work on this."

He nodded. "I swear, I'll try to do better in the future." His cell phone rang, and he pulled it out. "Jensen," he said. He stood up and retreated to the hall, and Cuddy glanced at her watch. It was about time to wake House up.

She reached over to shake his shoulder, then changed her mind and bent over, being careful of the bruises on his arms and sides and the abrasions on his face, and kissed him. It took him a few seconds to respond, and feeling him gradually come to confused awareness would have brought a smile if her lips hadn't otherwise been occupied. When there was no doubt he was awake, she broke it off.

"Wow," he said. "If that's a new and improved version of an alarm clock, I'm ready to purchase one."

"Just any old one?" she teased him.

"Only the Cuddy limited edition, private run of just one model." He looked over her shoulder as Wilson re-entered the room, and Cuddy pulled back a bit.

"How's your brother?" she asked.

"A little calmer on the meds, read that as sedated, but he's still got no orientation at all." Wilson walked back to the window and looked across the parking lot toward the psych ward again. "So, how did Jensen do with your mother?"

"He gave her several illustrations that some things need to be done by professionals, he said. For instance, asking her why she didn't do my appendectomy when I was a teenager herself. Managed finally to get her convinced to back off for the moment, but he said it won't last. She'll need reminders when this wears off." House sighed. "I also am supposed to tell her myself to leave Princeton." Cuddy gave his hand a sympathetic squeeze.

Wilson was still staring out the window. "I have to write my brother a letter. Homework's a bitch, isn't it?"

House smirked. "It is that." He looked from one of them to the other. "You two both look worn out." Wilson looked even tireder than Cuddy, who had at least had some naps today.

"It's kind of been a long 24 hours," Wilson pointed out. "We're all going to sleep tonight." He turned away from the window. "Are you ready for your meds? I'll go get the nurse."

"Okay," House replied. The sooner he was down for the count, the sooner his friends would be. Wilson left the room, and House looked at Cuddy. "Did you mind getting kicked out earlier?"

"No. I understand."

"It's just easier to talk to one person. And I didn't know what he was going to say, or where we'd wind up going." His words trailed off. He had always hated personal explanations.

Cuddy ran one hand along the side of his face. "It's okay, House. I understand. Really."

They were silent for a minute then until Wilson came back in, trailed by the nurse with a med cup. "Okay, House. Nighty night."

House gulped the pill down dry, and Cuddy frowned and handed him the cup of water. He took a few swallows and handed it back. "Good night, Wilson. Good night, Cuddy. And I prescribe a good night's sleep for both of you, too. Doctor's orders. Maybe they can bring in two cots."

"I'll find some," Wilson promised. He headed back out, and Cuddy leaned over for another kiss.

"Good night, House."

He was smiling slightly as he drifted away.


	34. Chapter 34

The night passed refreshingly peacefully for all three of them, and House actually woke up before his two friends. He looked from one of them to the other, both dead to the world still, and was careful to keep quiet. A look at the monitor panel next to him gave the good news that his fever was much lower, down to just 100.1. Things were apparently on the mend, although his chest still felt somewhat tight, and he still felt like he had been hit by a car. Wonder why that is, he thought sardonically. For the first time, he wondered where his motorcycle was, and then wondered if there was any chance at all that either of his friends would let him bail it out and ride it home, if it wasn't smashed up too badly. No, probably not. He grinned, picturing Cuddy's reaction, with that special fire in the eyes and flush on the face. She was so beautiful when she was outraged.

He reached for the cup of water on the nightstand, and the pain on moving his right arm made him stop to study the bruises again. They looked even more impressive now than yesterday. That was where the car had hit him, there and his leg. Nothing broken but plenty of soft tissue insult. He pushed the sheet down and hiked his hospital gown up to study his thigh. It looked about like it felt, even though the IV drugs were taking the edge off. Walking was going to be fun for a few days. No, probably better stay off the motorcycle for a while.

He pulled the sheet back up, raised the head of the bed a little, and stared out the window, replaying the last week in his mind. Wilson, his mother, Rachel, Jensen. What a maelstrom.

And Cuddy. He looked back over at her, watching her face twitch, her lips move slightly as the ray of sunlight stretched out across the bed and gradually kissed her. She opened her eyes and slowly focused, then pushed herself up on an elbow as she realized that he was watching her. "Good morning," she said, smiling.

"Good morning."

She glanced over at Wilson, still totally out. "What were you thinking? I could see the wheels spinning."

He couldn't resist, just for the sake of watching her reaction. "I was wondering if the motorcycle was banged up too much for me to ride it home."

She gave him everything he'd hoped for with extra spice added. "Are you CRAZY?" She hit her feet instantly and came over to lean on the edge of the bed, deliberately emphasizing the point that at the moment, she had him literally pinned down. "You aren't going to get within a mile of that death trap until you are TOTALLY well, by my definition and not yours, and all of your injuries, including the broken wrist that you just reset the clock on, are healed up. And THEN, we'll have a long discussion about it." She broke off, reading his expression flawlessly. "And you're just trying to get a rise out of me."

"It worked," House pointed out.

"Keep it down," Wilson commented from his cot. "People trying to sleep over here." He sat up, looking decidedly rumpled and un-Wilsonish, and rubbed his face. "What were you two yelling about?"

"I wasn't yelling. She was yelling," House corrected.

"It's too early to score technical points, House. What was she yelling about?"

"He was thinking about riding the motorcycle home," Cuddy said in a tone of disgust.

Wilson came to his feet then. "Are you CRAZY? You're going to have to stay on IV antibiotics for several days this time. And there's your leg. And the wrist."

"I could probably hook up an IV pole to it somehow," House said, head tilting as he considered the possibilities. Cuddy gave an exasperated sigh and turned to stalk into the bathroom.

Wilson walked over to the bedside. "Try to be nice to her, House. She's had a hell of a week, mostly because of you."

House looked a bit guilty but couldn't help modifying the accusation. "Rachel was NOT because of me. So at least one bad thing was officially not my fault." He shook his head vigorously and tripped himself into an extended coughing fit. Wilson raised the head of the bed a bit more and refilled the cup of water, offering it to him. Cuddy came out of the bathroom just as he finally had regained the ability to breathe.

"House, are you okay?"

"Great," he replied. "I've hardly got any fever at all this morning. See?"

"Yeah, you're all well again, we can tell," Wilson said dryly. He fished out his wallet and checked it compulsively. "Okay, I'm taking breakfast orders. What are you in the mood for, House? The food down there is a bit better than what the inmates usually get."

"Not that hungry," he started, and Cuddy glared at him, "but I might choke down a pancake or two. Think you could sneak into the kitchen and make them."

Wilson felt relieved at the almost-normal banter, just a bit of tension glossing the edges. "Not here, but I'll make you some real ones once we get back to Princeton. Cuddy?"

"Eggs and toast, please," she requested. He exited, and she turned back to House. "I was thinking last night about heading back to Princeton, soon as you're stable."

"I'm PERFECTLY stable, Cuddy. Really, I'm fine."

"Right," she said, not believing him for a minute. "You're definitely better than Friday night, though. Which is only because you're getting high doses of a whole list of drugs IV, and which doesn't mean you need to stop everything just because there's some improvement now. We're really going to get you well this time."

"We do need to get back to Princeton, though," he said, suddenly serious. "Rachel needs you. How's she doing?"

"Better all the time. She'll probably be discharged tomorrow. I was thinking of taking you back to my place; your mother is still at your apartment." House rolled his eyes. "You're going to need some medical care still, and I'm serious about staying with the IV for a while, but if you go to PPTH, your mother will find you there, and everybody would know you'd been in a crash, too. And there are the nightmares," she added reluctantly. "Lots harder to stick with the hour and a half schedule and keep it private there, and you still have a lot of rest to catch up on. Just the nights with the sleeping pills won't be enough. I was thinking of taking a few days off when Rachel got out, anyway to monitor her." She studied his face for any indication of how he was taking this.

"Seems like a lot of trouble for you," he said softly.

"Believe me, it's much easier to have both of you in one spot than to worry about you both with one of you out of sight. Besides, it won't all be sleeping or medical. We can talk - or not. Whatever you want to do," she added, trying to make it clear she wasn't pushing him.

"Whatever I want to do?" he asked, with a twinkle in his blue eyes.

"Except for that. Not until you're in much better shape, anyway. I think you're going to have a hard enough time just moving for a few days." She reached out to brush his bruised arm as if her touch could heal it. "You also definitely need to avoid any exertion from a respiratory standpoint. We have time, House." Her expression changed again. "But to make sure we have time, I meant what I said about that motorcycle. Absolutely off limits. Promise me that."

"Everybody lies, Cuddy."

"You won't lie directly to me on something that really matters. Look me straight in the eye and promise me. I'm serious. Come on, House."

With a sigh, he met her worried gaze. "I promise you I won't ride the motorcycle until I'm all better. Satisfied?"

"Yes," she said.

Why should she be? Why should she believe him? His mood was changing again. She was so beautiful and so patient, and he was a wreck. What did she need him in her life for anyway?

"Hey!" She snapped her fingers in front of his nose. "Focus, House. We were talking about going back to Princeton. You have three options: Your apartment, with your mother; the hospital, with everybody; or my house with me and Rachel."

Not really much of a contest. "Your place," he voted reluctantly. "If you're sure it won't be too much trouble."

"I'm sure. Wilson offered to help out part-time, too." She left that one on the table, watching his reaction.

Wilson. House was still mad at Wilson, though it was starting to fade. His friend was just being classic Wilson, after all, and he certainly regretted it. But more to the point, Wilson could at least take some of the burden of two convalescents off of Cuddy. "I guess he could help out," he said after a minute.

Cuddy smiled. "Thank you, House. He needs to be doing something, and he will be useful." She gave his arm a squeeze, and he jumped as she hit a particularly sore spot. "Are you okay? I apologize, I should have been more careful."

He suddenly remembered his alarm clock from last night. "I think it needs a kiss to make it better."

She leaned over and provided one. "That better?"

"Much. You know, I have a few other sore spots, too."

She leaned across and kissed his left arm, just above the large dressing on his elbow, then moved up slowly to the abrasions on the left side of his face, hesitating slightly at the still visible scar of the gash from her own prank gone wrong. She kissed it along the entire length, then was just moving finally to his lips when Wilson, right on cue, came through the door juggling trays. "Breakfast! Am I interrupting something?"

Cuddy jumped back, immediately and needlessly straightening out her clothes. "I was just, um, inspecting all of his injuries. He seems to be starting to heal up." House met Wilson's eyes over her head, giving him an exasperated look, but then relaxed and gave a conspiratorial wink.

"Yeah, she was just taking care of all of my boo-boos. They feel a lot better, too, although they'll need another treatment after a while. Repeat p.r.n."

Wilson smiled inwardly and started distributing the food. Maybe things could get back to normal between them all some day.


	35. Chapter 35

Late Sunday afternoon, a nurse, with Cuddy hovering behind, pulled a wheelchair into House's room. House was sitting on the edge of the bed, annoyed by the fact that the simple act of getting dressed was enough to get him out of breath. Not only that, but the myriad of sore spots were setting up a chorus. His own clothes had been pretty much destroyed by the ER staff, including, to his disgust, his rock band T-shirt, but Wilson had gone shopping at the local mall that afternoon and brought him new jeans, a new T-shirt, and even a new leather jacket that was nearly identical to the old one, minus the impact scuffs on the leather on the right side where the car had hit and the ripped-out elbow on the left where he had hit the road and been dragged for a short distance. It all fit perfectly, but House was still a bit put-out.

House's assigned doctor from this hospital was also part of the entourage, and he was in the middle of what was obviously an extended list of instructions to Cuddy. "And DAILY labs, at a minimum. I'd recommend having oxygen there still in case you need it, and it is ESSENTIAL that he stay with the IVs for fluid as well as medication until he's in better shape." He sighed. "You have a list of everything he's on. And I still personally would recommend transferring him to a hospital."

"I guarantee, he will have supervision 24/7 by a physician," Cuddy replied, with a bit of an edge in her tone that told House this wasn't her first iteration of that statement. "And he's going to rest and cooperate with everything, aren't you, House?"

House immediately assumed an angelic expression. "Absolutely. How could anybody suspect otherwise?"

The doctor, who had only known House since Friday night, rolled his eyes. On second thought, he would be glad to see the last of this one. Wilson chuckled in sympathy, but added, "Trust me, we'll look after him. He's not going to escape this time until he's really well."

The nurse, who had been carefully staying below the line of fire, parked the wheelchair beside the bed, locked the brakes, and looked from House to Wilson and Cuddy, rightly figuring that help would be less annoying from them, although still annoying. They stepped up on either side.

"Okay, House, stand up and a short pivot," Cuddy said in a cheerleader tone.

"I have eyes, I can see it," he replied. He heaved himself up to his feet and immediately got a double yelp from his insulted leg and his badly bruised right arm, which did not appreciate taking the weight of that side on the cane. He forced himself to ignore it. Cuddy and Wilson hovered anxiously, ready if needed but also a bit hesitant to grab him anyway, as there weren't many non-bruised options. House's breath hissed sharply as he took a step, then pivoted and made a controlled collapse into the wheelchair. "See, nothing to it," he said, breathing a bit heavily again. Cuddy and Wilson exchanged a look over his head.

"After tonight, when it's over 48 hours from injury, you can use heat on the muscles, and that should help," the doctor advised. "The anti-inflammatories will help, too, but they MUST be combined with food."

"You know, we're all three doctors, too," House snapped. "MD after our names and everything."

The doctor thought again that House's condition Friday night, accident aside, certainly didn't indicate much medical sense, but he wisely kept that opinion to himself at the moment. A few more minutes, and he would be rid of this troublesome patient. "Okay, I'll go ahead and sign off on these instructions," he said, doing so, "and please keep him under close observation."

"I will," Cuddy replied. She was adjusting the IV on the pole attached to the wheelchair, making sure everything was still flowing.

The doctor scrawled his signature on the sheet, handed it to Cuddy, and said, "Nurse Johnson will see you out." Nurse Johnson had a private look at the back of his rapidly departing head for that.

"I'll go bring the car around to the front entrance," Wilson said. He turned to leave the room and nearly ran into Jensen, who was entering.

"Leaving us already?" Jensen asked.

"Even with the no-doubt 5-star rating, I can think of places I'd rather be," House replied. Jensen smiled. "Seriously, I'm going to have my own personal MD sheepdog, with sheepdog #2 on part-time duty. I'll be fine."

Jensen turned to the nurse. "I'll take him down to the front door," he offered.

"Thank you, Dr. Jensen." The nurse gratefully made her escape, and Jensen turned to House.

"You aren't going back to your apartment, are you?"

House shook his head. "Her place. My apartment isn't a safe zone yet. Do you think I could kick out Mom by telegram?"

"Afraid not," Jensen said. "Take care of yourself first, though. You don't need to be having that conversation just yet. Although you might call her a time or two, just with a short update to let her know you're still alive. Without small doses of something, I'm afraid she'll come looking again, and she'd undoubtedly think of trying Dr. Cuddy's house."

"Let her try," Cuddy said, steel in the voice.

"I'll call her," House said quickly. "Not sure if I'll be able to make it up Friday for our appointment or not. Depends on if _she_ lets me out of jail yet." He tilted his head toward Cuddy.

"I'll put you down as questionable. You can come if possible, but if not, I certainly understand. You can always call at anytime, too."

"Dr. Jensen, how is Danny?" Wilson asked.

"Calmer than he was, still no orientation. This is going to be a long process, I'm afraid."

Wilson fiddled with his car keys. "I'll go get the car," he repeated and headed out.

"Thank you so much for everything you've done," Cuddy said.

"I was glad to help. Ready to go?" Jensen moved around to the back of the wheelchair.

"More than ready," House replied. With Cuddy sticking close to his side, they rolled out of the room and down the hall to the elevators. Once they were at the entrance and Wilson had pulled up into the circle drive, Jensen parked the wheelchair as close as he could but stepped back and let House transfer himself, although he did watch him closely. Cuddy was keeping the IV line untangled, and once House was in the back and stretched out along the seat, she put the bag of saline over the back of the seat, giving it some elevation.

"Don't knock that off," she couldn't resist worrying.

"I won't," House replied. "Or rip it out, or tie it up like a present and toss it out the window. Although the thought might be tempting. Ask Wilson some time what happened to his floor mats."

Wilson sighed. "Better than what almost happened to them. Come on, let's hit the road."

Cuddy closed the back door, then turned to Jensen, who was just unlocking the wheelchair. "Thank you again," she repeated softly. "And he thanks you, too, even if he won't say it."

"I know," Jensen replied, remembering also that House actually had said it, although Cuddy didn't know that. "I'm sure you'll take care of him," he said.

"You'd better believe it." Cuddy opened the front passenger's door and got in, and Jensen turned back briefly at the front door to watch them drive away.

The Volvo steadily wound its way through light traffic and then, once clear of the city, hit the highway toward Princeton.

"You okay, House?" Cuddy asked anxiously.

"Fine," he said. It was a lie, but she knew that as well as he did. She just wanted to hear him say it, to use the level of exasperation in his voice as a gauge of his pain level. The Volvo was fairly smooth, but the road vibrations were definitely a downgrade from lying still in a hospital bed.

"You can take a nap if you want," Wilson suggested. "We'd be getting to Princeton just about time to wake up."

"Not half as much fun as watching the traffic," House replied. He sounded edgy. "Ask him about the floor mats."

"So, what happened to your floor mats, Wilson?" Cuddy obligingly asked.

Wilson grinned. "Back when House and I were going to the funeral . . ." He stalled suddenly, the grin fading out of his voice. "Back when I had kidnapped him and was forcing him to go to the funeral . . ."

House took over. "I needed to pee and asked him to find a place for a pit stop. He pulled out a plastic bottle instead." Wilson cringed. How different things appeared in retrospect. Not even offering his victim a proper bathroom? "I tossed the bottle in the back seat and said I'd just pee on the floor, and then I noticed that he had bought used floor mats in honor of the trip. I threw the floor mat out the window."

Cuddy had been caught in her own freshly warmed guilt over the funeral, but she had to laugh at that one. "I can just see it. Good thing the police weren't around."

"No, the police came later when Wilson got arrested."

"After _you_ slammed your cane down on the accelerator," Wilson said, trying to get into the spirit. House didn't seem to be blaming either of them right now, just remembering funny elements of the trip, almost oddly nostalgic.

"But if you hadn't had an outstanding warrant, it would have just been a simple speeding ticket," House pointed out. He shifted slightly, as much as he could in the back seat.

"You okay?" Cuddy asked again.

"Fine." That fine rated at least 1 1/2 digits more on the snark scale than his last fine. She mentally assigned him about a 7.

"You want a bolus of morphine? I happen to have a syringe in my pocket. You'll be back in Princeton before you know it, literally."

"The ideal woman," House said in admiration. "But no, not now. Maybe after we get there."

"But the trip will be over then. Which is the point," she realized. "You don't want us to have trouble getting you inside, do you?"

"House, there are two of us," Wilson pointed out. "We can handle it."

"NO!" That was far sharper, startling both of them into silence. "I don't . . . I don't want anyone to take me anywhere," he continued finally.

"This isn't the funeral, and I apologize again, okay?" Wilson started, but Cuddy cut him off.

"He doesn't mean the funeral, he means in general. It's your choice, House. You had the choice."

"I know," he said. "I just . . ." He hesitated again. "I want to watch the trip."

Cuddy abruptly realized something. "Did your father ever put you in the back seat like this and take you places? Places away from your mother?"

House was silent for a few minutes. Wilson swore softly under his breath. "We could have transferred you by ambulance."

"No. I didn't realize . . . It's okay. I just want to watch the trip."

"You didn't think it would bother you? Or you didn't remember?" She recalled him saying that he could run into triggers to events that he didn't remember until faced with them.

"Didn't remember," he said after a minute. "It's not the same, though. He tied me up, damned bastard. The IV's not _that_ bad." It was a bad joke, but the effort counted for quite a bit. "Not the same. And both of you, not him. It's different. But I want to watch the trip. And can't we talk about something?"

"Sure." Cuddy suddenly realized why House had been trying to talk about funny moments between friends for the whole trip so far. "So, Wilson, tell me about your outstanding warrant."

Wilson picked up the thread easily. "Way back before my first divorce, I went to this medical conference . . ." He rattled on, with House throwing in an arch comment here and there, and Cuddy sat quietly listening, but actually at first throwing mental rocks at John House and second fully processing the fact that House had been trying to distract himself. He had not gotten trapped in a flashback, had not totally lost his grip on the present. He had deliberately been trying to distract himself when faced with a memory that had been repressed and that he had had no chance to prepare for. Granted, the situations weren't the same, as he said, but there were clearly enough similarities to disturb him. Still, his rational mind was trying to cling to control this time, emphasizing the differences. He's getting better, she thought again. He really is starting to get better, starting to handle things better. Thank you, Dr. Jensen.

She forced herself back into the conversation, and she and Wilson kept it up all the way to Princeton, with House regularly participating. Finally, the Volvo pulled up to her house. Wilson got as close as he could, which still wasn't too close, and Cuddy got out and opened the back door. "Maybe we should have brought a wheelchair."

"Think we can make it," House replied. He passed her the IV bag and stiffly extracted himself from the back seat and stood up. His pain level clearly was up, too; not all discomfort on that trip had been due to memories. He leaned on the cane, testing the right arm, flinching. "Ace bandage," he said suddenly. "Wrap the right arm. Help it take the pressure."

"Good idea . . .once we get inside," Wilson said. He got on House's left. "Here, put your arm over my shoulders. Is that too bad?" House flinched as the large dressing over his left elbow pulled slightly as Wilson moved his arm, but then things settled down a bit.

"Okay." He hesitated, looked at Cuddy. She gingerly installed herself on the right, the worse-bruised side, trying to provide support without hurting him, becoming a stronger cane to lean on. Finally, they had him propped up between them, and ever so slowly, they limped up the sidewalk and into the house. Wilson tilted toward the couch, and House shook his head. "Bathroom, then bedroom. Once I'm down, I don't think I'll be able to get up for a while." They diverted into the bathroom to let him pee, then headed on to the bedroom, and he collapsed with a slight groan onto the mattress, eyes closing.

Wilson took off his shoes, and Cuddy arranged the IV bag on the headboard. She pulled out the discharge instructions list from her coat pocket. "Wilson, I need all of this, plus an IV pole. And anything else you might think would be useful. And when you get back, we'll cook dinner. House, I'm afraid you don't get to go down for the count just yet. You've got to eat first."

"I know." He didn't open his eyes. Wilson left on his mission, and Cuddy sat down on the edge of the bed, smoothing House's hair back.

"I'm going to give you a little boost of morphine now, just enough to take the edge off at the moment. I'll wake you up in an hour and a half to eat. Okay?"

"Okay." She pulled out the syringe, uncapped it, and injected part of it into the IV port.

"Thanks," he said softly.

"For the morphine?"

"For letting me watch the trip without making a big deal of it."

She leaned over and kissed him. "Thank you for telling us what you needed."

She stayed with him until she was sure he was asleep, and then she went into the bathroom and turned on the tub. She would grab a quick hot bath in her own bathtub before Wilson returned. "We're home," she said to herself in the mirror. House was here, and he would be okay, with diligent care, and tomorrow, Rachel would come home from the hospital. Home. They were home. Four letters had never sounded so good.


	36. Chapter 36

Nearly an hour and a half later, Cuddy went back into the bedroom. Wilson was now cooking dinner back in the kitchen, and he had brought an entire carload of medical supplies that they had just finished unloading. Cuddy was beginning to feel like she needed to start keeping a fully equipped exam and treatment room here at her house.

Surely things had to calm down, sooner or later. Life wouldn't always be like this, would it?

She wheeled the IV pole into her bedroom and hooked the saline bag onto it. She then checked the line in the back of his right hand, making sure it had survived all the travel and activity today unscathed. He was down to just a low maintenance flow on the saline now, given that he was getting some intake - as much as she could get down him - orally, but they would need the IV port for several more days. The doctors had recommended keeping him on IV antibiotics for a full 7 days after his double crash, vehicular and physical, Friday night, and she was determined to do it. But the running IV line at least would keep him from feeling like such a pincushion. As much as he was on right now, she would hate to have to stick him for each dose of everything.

House was totally out, and she took a minute to study him. He still looked both sick and tired, and the bruises were blossoming in an entire rainbow of colors. She brushed her hand across his forehead, judging his temperature, which was just low-grade now. At least it hadn't gone back up under the stress of the trip. "I'm going to make sure you get well this time," she admonished him softly. "You can't keep doing things like this to yourself." She hated to wake him up, but she knew she would have to. "House?" She touched his shoulder gently. "House? It's almost time to eat."

Weighed down by morphine and exhaustion, he didn't even react. She decided to give him another few minutes and instead took the Ace bandage Wilson had brought and removed the clips. It was a good idea, like most of House's medical ones. The extra support on the right arm would help him use the cane. They could have brought a wheelchair, but she knew that House would have felt even more helpless with it, and really, it was better to have him as mobile as possible, both to help the bruises to heal and to assist in preventing blood clots. The hospital had debated putting him on Coumadin, but given the acute bruising at the moment, as well as what they had called "potentially uncooperative patient and fall risk" in the chart, they had held off for the moment, although they had had compression devices on both legs during his hospitalization. Now that he was out, he needed to move as much as he could. The anti-inflammatories would be restarted tonight, strictly with meals, and he was still on high-dose PPIs IV, along with the IV antibiotics. His labs had been steadily improving since Friday night.

Cuddy picked up his right wrist and wound the end of the bandage around it, pulling it snug but not too tight, giving herself a good anchor, then took the first round or two of wrapping his arm.

House shifted, pulling slightly away, and Cuddy instantly dropped the bandage, which rolled away across the floor. She pulled the end of it around his arm free and then bent over to kiss him, feeling the familiar stab of guilt. Why had she thought it would be a good idea to put something firmly around his wrist without waking him up first? She knew he had been tied up by his father. She kissed him, pulling his head up off the bed to her, then broke away for air. "House? This is your personal alarm clock. Time to get up." She kissed him again.

His reaction was slower this time, but gradually, he came into awareness. His blue eyes when he opened them were not entirely focused, still partly cloudy from the extra morphine. "Mmmm. Good morning."

"Evening," she corrected, pulling away and smiling at him.

"That, too." He looked around the room, slowly orienting himself.

"We're back in Princeton, remember?"

"Course I remember. I'm sick, not senile." She grinned at the note of somewhat-drugged irritation in his voice. He started to push himself up into a sitting position and flinched as the bruises set up a chorus, combating the morphine. Cuddy grabbed the pillow from the other half of the bed and slipped it behind him, helping him sit up.

"Wilson brought an Ace bandage. I was about to wrap your right arm, to help it with the cane."

"Okay," he replied. His head tilted drowsily as she retrieved the bandage from the floor and started to reroll it. "Why was it on the floor?"

"I dropped it. You know how they unroll."

He accepted that and sat unusually quietly while she wrapped his arm and then took a full set of vitals. "Where's Wilson?" he asked.

"Cooking." She checked both of his pupils, and he flinched away from the light. "Are you in there?"

"I'm sure I am somewhere. I think I remember someone giving me extra morphine."

"You needed it after the trip."

"Wasn't complaining."

"You feel like getting up? You really need to move around as much as you can. You can come back in here and take the zolpidem after dinner."

He sighed, debating. He really didn't want to do anything at the moment except try to drift back away to a world without pain, but he knew she had a point. He slowly, gingerly shifted his leg over and moved to sit on the side of the bed. Cuddy got on his left side. "Put your left arm over my shoulders, and you can use the IV pole on the right. You ready?"

He answered by lurching to his feet, accompanied by an involuntary hiss of pain. The morphine blanket pulled down a little further, leaving his nerve ends exposed and shivering. "House? House!" Cuddy's voice reached him.

"Yeah?"

"Are you okay?"

"I think so," he lied.

She didn't believe him for a minute but was glad to get a response. "Okay, let's head for the kitchen whenever you're ready." They slowly wheeled their way down the hall, Cuddy feeling how much he was leaning on her, as well as the IV pole.

(H/C)

House managed to eat most of dinner, under double-barreled encouragement from Cuddy and Wilson, and afterward, after another trip through the bathroom, he collapsed back onto Cuddy's bed. Cuddy got him the zolpidem and anti-inflammatories with a cup of water while Wilson drew up doses of all of the IV meds. House already had his eyes closed before the series of injections was finished. The car trip that day had taken a lot out of him, besides being the longest period of time his still-exhausted body had been alert since Friday. Cuddy finished the IV set by giving him another shot of morphine, then kissed him. "Good night, House," she said.

He didn't respond, already gone. Wilson nodded toward the line of empty syringes. "He ought to have a good night. Ever feel like opening a branch clinic here?"

"I was just thinking earlier that I ought to have my own medical supply closet." She sighed, feeling her own tiredness settle across her shoulders suddenly. "It can't always be like this. Can it?"

"No." Wilson put on his encouraging oncologist voice. "It will get better. Things will get better. Do you want me to stay here tonight?"

Cuddy glanced at her watch. "No, you need to get a good night's sleep in your own bed. You can come back tomorrow morning and stay with him while I go to the hospital and get all the arrangements for the week made. Do you think you could stay here another hour tonight, though?"

"Going to go visit Rachel?"

Cuddy nodded. "Just for a few minutes. I know I'll see her tomorrow, and I've had countless phone updates, but still . . ."

Wilson smiled at her, understanding. "Go on. I'll watch him until you get back."

"Thank you." She brushed the side of House's face with her hand as she stood up from the edge of the bed. "I'll be back, House." She quickly grabbed her purse and coat and headed out.

Left alone with his unresponsive friend, Wilson took another set of vitals, checked the IV, and then listened to his chest with the stethoscope. Not normal, but definitely better. House was hopefully on the mend. "You need to get well," Wilson urged him. "I'm not sure how many rounds of this she can take - or you, either."

House didn't react, of course. Wilson paced the room a few times, restless, wanting to do something, yet not wanting to leave. Finally, he found a notepad, pulled a chair in from the dining table, and sat down against the far wall. His eyes traveled from his friend to the blank pad to his friend again and back to the pad. Totally white and unmarked. A new beginning. So easy for a notepad; you simply tore off the previous page and tossed it aside. So hard for people. He picked up his pen.

_"Dear House . . ."_


	37. Chapter 37

Short but adrenaline-filled chapter. Hope they aren't too OOC, but you do OOC things sometimes when you're rattled.

(H/C)

Cuddy woke up slowly, feeling absolutely drugged by sleep. She had barely spoken to Wilson when she got home last night, just gave a very quick check of House and rolled into bed herself. Now, she woke up with that chilling feeling that something was wrong. She was in her bed. No smell of smoke. Early morning sunshine outside. House was next to her, still sound asleep. She reached over to check his temperature and jumped as she realized that he was cold. Totally, deathly cold. She tried to pick up his left arm, the one closer to her, and his whole body was stiff.

"House!" She bolted upright, scrambling over on top of him, forgetting the leg, forgetting the bruises, only thinking frantically of CPR, even as her medical mind shouted at her that it was already too late. It was only after several futile chest compressions, several efforts to breathe life back into his cold, still lips, that she noted that the floor beside the bed was covered in blood. The IV tubing from his right hand fell downward instead of up and did not lead to the pole. At some point in the night, the tubing had disconnected from the saline bag and fallen off to the floor, thus creating a downward track for gravity from the still-open line to his circulatory system. He had bled out on her bedroom floor in his sleep.

"HOUSE! NO!" She broke down into sobs, throwing herself on his chest, desperately trying to detect any remaining trace of life. If only she had closely looked at the IV and had verified that all connections were secure. But she had been too tired when she got home, had just glanced at House quickly, and had gone on to sleep herself.

She had let him down. She had slept unawares while he died right next to her. She fell across him, crying a waterfall of tears that he would never feel.

It was too late.

RING! Cuddy's alarm clock sounded, and she snapped up awake, jolting every muscle and nerve ending in her body, much like House usually did. Her pulse was racing, her breathing ragged, but she had never been so grateful to hear that alarm in her life. She reached over to silence it, reassuring herself that it had all been a dream.

Then she replaced the clock on the nightstand and turned to find the other half of the bed empty. "House!" She pinched herself to be sure she was awake now, then hit the floor at a frantic run, bolting out of the bedroom. Damn him. Where had he gone? Where could he have gone? He could barely stand up on his own, and while he certainly had a history of escape, he had agreed to this recuperation at her place.

She nearly ran into him in the hall as he exited the bathroom, and she launched herself at him, seizing him so hard that he yelped and almost fell over, his shaky balance unable to withstand that whirlwind. He caught himself, actually caught both of them, against the wall with a grunt. "Don't EVER do that again," she pleaded in a tone that he hadn't heard since he revived on the floor of the bus after his heart stopped.

"Do what? Go to the bathroom? Life would be more convenient that way, but I doubt it would work. Are you okay?" He tried to get a good look at her, but she wasn't allowing him any distance to do so.

"Scare me like that." She buried herself against him, the wall still holding both of them up.

"Um, Cuddy? Are you feeling all right? And could you _please_ lighten up the grip a little bit? I was hit by a car, remember?"

She abruptly realized that she was squeezing him hard enough that even someone without pneumonia plus a whole collection of bruises would have objected. She immediately let go. "Oh, House, I'm . . . are you okay? I apologize. Did I hurt you?" He was literally being held up by the wall, his left arm folded tightly across his chest, right still feebly hanging onto the IV pole, but the sagging body was topped by the ever-active mind, and his eyes were in full diagnostics mode.

"You're sweating. Your respirations are way up, and probably your pulse is, too." He tried to lift his right arm to check her carotid artery and both flinched at the movement and sagged a bit more against the wall.

"I'm fine. Are you okay? Did I hurt you? Here, stand back up." She moved the IV pole back closer to the wall, letting him pull himself more upright on it, carefully assisting him.

"Nope, we're not deflecting here," House insisted. "I'm not all right, but we both knew that. Diagnostically boring; that case is solved. You, on the other hand, have a whole list of new symptoms at the moment."

"I just woke up and saw you weren't there. I got worried."

"That wasn't worried; that was frantic," he insisted. He had stayed in bed for a good 15 minutes after waking up, just watching her sleep, and when he decided he couldn't wait to use the bathroom much longer, thanks to the IV fluids, he had taken nearly 5 minutes gradually prying himself off the bed, working himself up onto his shaky legs, trying not to disturb her. That he could try that hard and still wind up disturbing her this much only confirmed his theory that trying to do nice things backfired.

"I had a nightmare," Cuddy admitted. His expression softened into understanding there. He could certainly relate to that these days. "You were dead," she continued, tears welling up in her voice and her eyes as she recalled it.

"And it was your fault?" he suggested, filling in the blank. "Not through murder but through failing in some responsibility?" She nodded wordlessly. "I'm perfectly alive, see? And you haven't failed. You're doing a great job with everything."

The unexpected compliment, doubly unexpected from him, so closely echoing Jensen's but even more precious, actually did make her burst into tears then and latch onto him with new fervor, knocking him backwards into the wall again. House awkwardly stood - or more accurately leaned - there, trying to stay upright, trying to ignore the pain of her grasp, and trying to figure out what the hell he was supposed to do in this situation. He would never understand women. Try to be reassuring and complimentary for once, and they start crying. Should he have snarked at her instead? "I'm sorry," he said, feeling totally helpless, not sure what his sin was at the moment.

"I told you not to tell me that," Cuddy reminded him, pulling away enough to whack him on his chest, and then her eyes widened in horror as he yelped. "House, are you okay?"

His breathing was a bit rapid itself now, but at least his humor was intact. "I . . . refuse to answer that question . . . on the grounds that . . . it might lead to further harm . . . no matter what I say." He pulled away from her into the wall and coughed a time or two. "Seriously, what do you women want? Was that the wrong thing to say?"

"No! It was perfect. You were being nice."

"So you assault me whether I'm nice or not, but you appreciate it more while assaulting me if I'm nice," he suggested. "Is that it?" His light tone fell away at her expression. "Seriously, Cuddy, I'm okay. I'm perfectly alive. It was just a dream."

She had backed away a few inches, just enough to study him closely. He looked awful, breathing a bit ragged at the moment, still being held up by the wall, but yes, he was alive. It was just a dream.

Just then, Wilson's knock came on the front door, followed by the sound of the key she had given him turning and the door opening. "Good morning!" he called, then noticed the frozen tableau in the hall, House's pained and slumped posture, Cuddy's tear-streaked face. "Are you okay?" He divided the question equally between them. "What's going on?"

"Ask her," House replied.

"Ask him," Cuddy stated at precisely the same instant.

Wilson spread his hands. "Never mind. I'll go start breakfast." He turned toward the kitchen, and Cuddy and House stared after him, then simultaneously started to smile.

"Come on," Cuddy said, carefully helping him back to an upright posture and positioning the IV pole. "I need to change into something besides pajamas, but first, you need your morning vitals check. No, FIRST, I'm going to check that IV."


	38. Chapter 38

Hi, readers! Couple of notes. Several of you have asked if there is another story after this. There might be. I'm not sure yet, just have to see what my muse decides. I really have no control over her at all. There is definitely room for one, because House's therapy, for instance, is going to be a LONG-term process. Totally unrealistic to "fix" him in a few weeks, or even to "fix" him at all. If I do write another, though, you can trust when you see chapter one go up that there is a definite road map from there to the end. I don't develop things as I go. If I even start to share something, it's got a quite-firm blueprint already complete. I can't write otherwise; my muse doesn't work on the "play it as you go" system.

About Desperado, it is now Monday in story time. Desperado ends Saturday night, story time, and I hope you all love the last scene in this story as much as I do. It's been right up there with House falling asleep in Jensen's office as one of my favorites from the beginning. I know a lot is mixed up at the moment, but there are several chapters left, and it will be much less mixed up by then, although again, not totally "happily ever after and not a problem left in the world," because that isn't realistic. I know it's fanfic, but I do want to at least attempt to be realistic. (Something I wish TPTB would do, cough, cough. Seriously, I thought Broken was a great episode if House's main problem had been depression. But his main problem, developed so extensively through multiple episodes last season, was psychosis with hallucinations and delusions. That got totally swept under the rug, just an "all better now." Then keeping him as an inpatient in a psych ward for 3 months for something that wasn't even his main admitting complaint while he is functional and not a threat? What kind of insurance does he have? People with ACUTE problems can't stay 3 months without jumping through hoops of fire and pleading with the insurance, and often can't even then. Ah, well, Hugh Laurie was great in the opener, as always, but as a continuation of last season, that one lacked a whole lot of realism and continuity aspects. Okay, sorry, off soapbox.)

So 6 days left (story time, almost certainly longer actual time) in Desperado. Sounds short, but do you realize the entire story has only covered a week and a half (Thursday night to Monday morning) so far? No wonder they're all tired!

Enjoy, and as always, thanks for the reviews.

(H/C)

"I'll be back in a few hours with Rachel," Cuddy said, and the door closed behind her with a slight echo through the rooms.

House and Wilson looked at each other. House was on the couch, Wilson standing across the room. It was the first time since Wilson's betrayal that they had actually been alone together in a private setting.

"So. . ." Wilson grasped frantically for something to do. He still wasn't satisfied with his apology letter, and anyway, cowardly, he really wanted to deliver that at some point where he could immediately make his escape and leave House to think things over on his own.

House sighed. "Go do dishes or something. I probably need to call my mother." Wilson gave him a sympathetic look and headed for the kitchen, and House pulled out his cell phone and then counted to ten in every language he knew before dialing. Part of him realized, too, that this call had another purpose. Nothing like defusing an uncomfortable situation by comparing it live to a much more uncomfortable one.

"GREG!" Blythe obviously had looked at caller ID. "Are you okay? Where are you?"

"I'm fine, Mom," he said, ignoring the second question. "I just wanted to check in and let you know I was okay."

"You've been gone since Friday night. I was frantic."

"You know I'd been sick last week, right?"

"Yes, Greg, anybody could have seen that. I kept telling you you needed to slow down."

"I had to get Rachel's case solved, but Friday night, once that was over, I basically just collapsed. I've been just resting since then, taking my meds, working on getting better, but I've still got some ground to make up. So I'm not going to be home just yet."

"You are getting better though?"

"Yes. I promise, I'm really getting better now. I just think I need to stay away from the hospital and everything for several more days, because I wouldn't be resting there. Something would come up, and I'd get drawn into it. I'll try to call you every day, okay?"

"All right, Greg. I'll try to stay busy until then, but do keep in touch, please?"

Something about her tone at stay busy set off alarms. "What have you been doing, Mom? Did you enjoy Philadelphia Friday?"

"Oh, yes, it was wonderful. So many things to see. And then Saturday, I was . . . well, I was looking for you. I was worried. Then yesterday and today, I've been cleaning and organizing your things."

House sat straight up on the couch so abruptly that he set off all of his bruises. "Mom, I DON'T want you moving my things."

"Greg, I'm your mother. I'm just tidying up a bit."

Limits, Jensen had said. Strict limits. "I realize you're my mother, but I'm grown up now, and that is MY apartment. I DO NOT want you changing things. Is that understood?" He flinched heavily, suddenly hearing his father in the last words - he was actually sounding like his father - and went into a coughing fit.

Startled oblivion was immediately replaced by concern. "Greg, are you okay? Greg?"

House was trying desperately to regain control of his breathing. Wilson came back in from the kitchen with a glass of water and handed it to him, then hovered anxiously at his side. He at least was silent, unlike the cell phone.

"Greg? GREG!"

House took another gulp of the cold water and handed it back. "I'm fine, Mom," he assured her, the wheezing tone and his ragged breathing giving him away. Wilson rolled his eyes. "Perfectly fine. I just need to rest and work on getting better, like I said. And I'm not going to be able to rest if I'm worrying about what is happening to my apartment. So LEAVE MY THINGS ALONE!"

Blythe was now in concerned mother mode, not just mother at loose ends. "Okay, Greg. It's all right. Calm down. Please, just rest and get well, okay? I'll stop."

Stop? How much had she done? "Mom, you need to do something. Go shopping. Take a tour of the University; they have a tour that's pretty good. Did you know they have an oil painting of George Washington that's painted from life?"

"Really? That must be rare. Okay, Greg, I'll stay busy, and I'll leave your things alone from now on. You just focus on getting better. Don't worry about me at all. Please, Greg."

"I'll try. I'd better go now, but I'll call you tomorrow briefly. Okay?"

"Okay. Goodbye, Greg. I love you." Blythe hung up.

House hit end on his cell phone and just sat there for a minute, breathing still a bit ragged. Wilson offered him the glass of water again, and he took another drink. "She's rearranging your apartment?" Wilson asked.

House nodded. "Straightening up and organizing, she called it."

"I could go over there after Cuddy gets back. Damage assessment. Try to fix things." His tone was reluctant but martyred, willing to throw himself into the lion's den for the cause for which he had been the catalyst, and House grinned with some real humor behind it that time.

"No, I need to deal with this myself, her and the apartment both. But not until I'm well."

"Right," Wilson said with relief. "I really do apologize for all this, House."

"One thing you could do is go to the Holiday Inn and check me out. I've been checked in there since Tuesday night, and there's a suitcase full of clothes, too. I bought some new stuff while I was gone Monday and Tuesday, so I wouldn't have to go back to my apartment yet. But then Rachel got sick. That would get me some clothes, at least. They have my credit card on file, so they've probably just been charging on the nights."

"I'll pay," Wilson promised. "My fault, anyway. But I'm not going over there until Cuddy gets back. Trust me, it's more than my life is worth to be caught leaving you alone right now. She'd cut me into small pieces and roast me over a fire. You really aren't well yet."

"I know," House replied. Every move of his body reminded him of that, not to mention that his breathing still wasn't normal. At least the fever was practically gone. The antibiotics were doing their job.

"Meanwhile," Wilson continued, "I brought over a set of old sweats of mine this morning. They won't quite fit, but it's something. I knew you would need more clothes from somewhere, and I was going to do that later after Cuddy returned, but I thought it might feel good to take a hot bath. Work out some of your sore spots." The suggestion was made tentatively, and he didn't add the obvious fact that there was no way currently that House could manage a bath on his own.

House debated. It did sound good, but he knew he would need extensive help from Wilson. On the other hand, Cuddy would have Rachel later, and requiring that level of care from her would just make things more difficult. It would be hard enough for her anyway with two of them without him being that demanding. "Okay," he said.

Wilson's slight relaxation showed just how much he was aware of the inward debate there. "I'll go get a trash bag to wrap your cast. We'll just pull the IV for the moment, I think. That one has been in for a few days anyway, probably needs to be changed." By the time he returned from the kitchen with a trash bag and duct tape, House had hauled himself painfully to his feet and taken a few steps toward the bathroom, leaning on the IV pole. Wilson hovered on the other side, not quite wanting to help without being asked, but when House stumbled slightly, he came in anyway, pulling his friend's left arm across his shoulders. "A bath should help you feel better," he said again.

House just nodded. He was concentrating on walking at the moment, and he was irritated that he was out of breath by the time they got to the bathroom. He closed the toilet lid and sat down, and Wilson turned the tub on, closed the door to keep the drafts out, and then carefully pulled the IV line out of House's right hand and unwrapped the Ace bandage from that arm. While he was neatly recoiling it, House managed to get his shirt off and unzip his jeans, and Wilson helped him pull them off.

House studied the entire impressive display of his bruises. It looked about like it felt. "If this was a low-speed collision, I don't think I want a high-speed one," he noted.

"Of course, if you'd been in a _car_ instead of on a _motorcycle_, you would have had some protection for your body from the impact," Wilson pointed out, then caught himself. He had been responding as if things were normal, forgetting for the moment that they weren't. He busied himself with the cast, wrapping that arm, going well up over the dressing on the bad abrasion on House's elbow, which didn't need to be getting wet. "I'll change that dressing once you're out, too. Or would you rather have Cuddy do it?"

"You can." House's eyes were on the far wall.

"She doesn't mind you here, you know. She wants you here."

"It's just a lot for her to deal with."

Wilson sighed and left that alone for the moment. He tested the tub water and turned the tap off. "Okay, you ready?" House got shakily to his feet, hanging onto the IV pole even though the IV was disconnected, and his bruised arm immediately noted the lack of the Ace bandage. Wilson had him from the other side, helping him, and slowly they shifted over until House was sitting on the edge of the tub. Wilson then moved down to pick up the bad leg, trying to be gentle. Just looking at House's scar surrounded in blue, purple, and red made his own leg hurt in sympathy. Finally, he had moved the leg across the rim and into the tub, and slowly House slid down into the water.

The heat immediately started soaking into the sore spots, washing away at least some of the pain, even feeling good on his sore chest. House leaned back and closed his eyes and wished momentarily that life could stay here.

(H/C)

Cuddy entered diagnostics. The team was seated around the glass table, doing paperwork or reading the paper.

"Good morning!" Kutner said brightly. "House isn't here yet."

"He doesn't usually get here yet," Foreman added.

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about," Cuddy said. "House called me and told me he was taking a few days to rest up and get well. Considering how bad he looked last week, I don't think he was faking it."

Taub nodded. "We tried to ask him if he was okay, but he said he'd fire the first person who did."

Cuddy had a private grin for that, behind the administrator front. "Anyway, he won't be in until further notice. He'd had pneumonia himself all last week, apparently. He's on strict rest and meds, and NONE of you are to bother him. Understood?" She met each of them in turn with her steady gaze, making sure that had soaked in. Satisfied, she continued. "I'm going to be out myself this week because Rachel is being discharged today. I'm going to watch her for a few days at home. Given how sick she was, I just don't feel comfortable turning her over to the nanny immediately." That made sense to all of them. "You can, however, contact me for any emergencies that come up. And thank you all for your hard work on Rachel's case."

"It was House," Kutner said. "He half killed himself to solve that one."

"I know." For just a moment, the administrator front slipped, and Cuddy's tone softened. She immediately pulled it back up. "Don't take a case for the department without consulting me, but I'm sure there are plenty of clinic hours as well as paperwork to be done."

'I'm sure we won't be bored," Taub replied. She nodded at them, turned, and left, heading down for Rachel's room.

Back in the conference room, Foreman tried to put on an air of being in charge. "Okay, you two" - he nodded at Thirteen and Kutner - "can do clinic hours this morning. Kutner? Kutner! Pay attention."

"What?" Kutner had been lost in thought.

"Clinic," Foreman repeated.

Kutner gave him a grin that told Foreman fully that Kutner knew he wasn't House but was choosing to humor him anyway and stood up. Thirteen had already left the room. Kutner headed for the elevators, pushed the button, and then stood there waiting with an expression that would have reminded anyone watching of House, though he was not thinking about a case. He was replaying the conversation Cuddy had just had with them. He had no doubt that House really was sick, and he had no doubt that Cuddy wanted to watch Rachel, but he didn't believe for a minute that those were taking place in isolation. Whatever it was was their business, but still, a broad smile settled across his face as he entered the elevator. Both of them deserved something good for once. Whistling, he headed for the clinic.


	39. Chapter 39

House was lying on Cuddy's bed on top of the covers while Wilson carefully inserted a new IV in his right hand. Wilson checked the flow on everything and the connections, then moved around to the other side. "I left the Ace bandage in the bathroom; I'll rewrap that right arm in a minute. Let's get a look at this left elbow." He carefully pulled the tape off, then ripped the dressing off quickly.

"OUCH!" House yelped. "What happened to your famous bedside manner? Or do you only use that with people who are dying?"

"It's better to just get it over with pulling a dressing off. Wow," Wilson added, looking at the shredded elbow. "I'll say this, House, you don't do anything halfway." House picked up his left arm and twisted around a bit to study the abrasion that covered most of the elbow. The position put a strain on a lot of points, though, and he let the arm fall back after a few seconds and leaned back into the mattress again. Wilson carefully inspected the abrasion, then picked up the tube of antibiotic cream. "Are you feeling better after the bath?" he asked. He'd refrained from asking until now because the simple act of getting out of the tub, dressing, and walking down the hall had gotten House out of breath again, and Wilson had been giving him a chance to recover.

"Yes," House replied. "Don't let me fall asleep." His eyes were half shut.

"I'd wake you up," Wilson started, but then he realized that House probably just wanted to see Cuddy and Rachel.

An odd thought. House wanting to see a kid. On the other hand, he actually related better to kids than he did to adults, and Wilson hadn't missed the fact that he was since her illness referring to Rachel by name. Wilson carefully cleansed, medicated, and redressed the elbow, then stood up. "I'll go get the Ace bandage," he said. He headed back into the bathroom, also diverting into the living room for the stethoscope. House's breathing seemed to be improving, but it certainly still wasn't normal. When he got back into the bedroom, he realized that House had in fact fallen asleep.

Wilson's immediate reaction was to just let his friend sleep. House needed the rest, after all, and Cuddy probably would take a little while getting things situated at the hospital anyway, like a parent leaving notes for the babysitter to cover all possible situations. PPTH was almost another child to her. Wilson put on the stethoscope, carefully warmed the end, and then listened to House's chest. Better, even if not good. He picked up House's right hand, studying the nails. The one thing he hadn't thought to bring yesterday was a pulse oximeter, but House seemed to be moving air all right. As a second thought, Wilson pulled off his right sock and checked the color of the nail beds on his foot, too, then checked the distal pulses, still a bit worried about possible clots. Everything seemed okay. Wilson put his sock back on, then moved back to the arm. House was sleeping so peacefully, and he still looked worn out. Wilson would wrap his arm, then just leave him alone. Rest would help him more than waiting up for Cuddy would, even if he was too stubborn to admit it to himself.

As Wilson started to unclip the Ace bandage, he abruptly caught himself, then put the bandage back down and sighed. Damn it, he was doing it again. It was almost second nature at times, being convinced that he knew best. The thing was, he had no doubt that he did indeed know best in this instance; House trying to wait up for Cuddy and Rachel to return while he was still so worn out himself was downright stupid. This was the perfect opportunity for a nap. Still, Wilson heard Jensen's voice again in his head, reminding him that even if he was correct, that did not equal the right to take away the choices of other adults. Reluctantly, he reached over to shake his friend's shoulder gently. "House. House, come on. You said you didn't want to fall asleep."

House opened his eyes, fighting his way up gradually against the fatigue. "Umff."

"You sure you don't want to take a nap? This is a good chance to catch one. Cuddy isn't back yet, and she probably will be a little while getting the hospital put to bed for the week."

"How long has she been gone?" House asked.

Wilson checked his watch. "Just over an hour. It will probably be a while yet. I was just about to wrap your arm, and then I'll leave you alone if you want. You really could use the rest."

He had been up for quite a while at this point, and it was impossible to keep his eyes open. "Mmm kay," House muttered. Wilson grinned to himself as he put on the Ace wrap. House was totally out by the time he quietly left the room a few minutes later. Wilson grabbed an extra blanket, put it over his friend on the way out, then retreated to the living room, checking his watch again. He pulled the notepad out of his briefcase, then settled on the couch and resumed working on his letter, getting up to check House about every 20 minutes.

He heard the keys rattle, and he jumped up to open the door. Cuddy, juggling bag, baby, and purse, smiled at him gratefully as she came in. "Thanks. Is he okay?"

"He's asleep. You need to wake him up at 10:45. He took a hot bath, and I replaced the IV and redid the dressing on his elbow. Lungs still aren't clear, but he seems to be slowly improving. His leg looks awful, but the distal pulses are good. He's still pretty tired." Wilson stretched out a hand to touch Rachel's cheek. "How's she doing?"

"Perfectly stable, they say, but I still want to watch her closely." Cuddy smiled. "She was asleep last night when I visited, but this morning, she just lit up and smiled when she saw me. She really is getting to know me now."

Wilson stuffed the notepad back in his briefcase and picked the briefcase up. "House is wearing an old pair of my sweats, but he did ask me to go check him out of the Holiday Inn. He's got some clothes there, so that will give him something. I'll go do that, then work this afternoon."

"We need to get labs, too."

"I'll draw some blood when I get back from the motel. Oh, by the way, he also called his mother. Got himself tripped into a bad coughing fit there while he was yelling at her."

Cuddy rolled her eyes. "What did she do now?"

"She was rearranging his apartment, apparently." Cuddy sighed. "I did offer to go do damage control, but he told me he has to deal with it himself. I think he scared his mother with that coughing fit, though. He said later she did agree to leave things alone. He suggested a few alternative activities."

"I'd like to suggest a few," Cuddy stated, and Wilson smiled. "I swear, I'll kill her if she comes around here. Or, since she's obviously reverting to his childhood, I'll spank her first, then kill her."

Wilson's smile turned into a laugh. "I'd like to see that." His expression fell suddenly. "I mean, I hope I don't have to. None of you should be having to deal with her."

"How was House?"

Wilson understood that she was asking that time about the two of them. "Not quite normal, but I don't think he hates me."

"He doesn't hate you. He just thinks you screwed up, which you did."

"Believe me, I know. But it wasn't as bad as I was afraid of this morning. He wasn't totally locking down on me."

"Good. Give him time, Wilson. You'll be all right."

"Thanks. I'll better get going. I'll be back in a little bit with his clothes and get some blood then." Wilson left.

Cuddy smiled down at Rachel. "We're home, Rachel. Did you miss it?" Rachel's eyes, however, were still firmly on Cuddy, more concerned with people than places at her age. "Well, let's get you unpacked, and then we'll wake up House. Okay?" She didn't want to put her daughter down and unpacked Rachel's things one-handed, then headed into the bedroom.

House was still sound asleep. Cuddy checked the IV connections, then went to the other side of the bed and sat down with her legs stretched out and Rachel in her lap. She looked at her watch. Five more minutes. She settled back against the headboard, just enjoying having both of them here, safe, and on the mend. Everything else could be worked out, as long as they got well. Their world of possibility would hopefully still be waiting at the end of it all. Finally, she put Rachel down on the bed between them, then leaned over to kiss House. "Come on, wake up time."

His eyelids fluttered and then opened, then opened wider. "Damn."

"Not the response I usually get from a kiss," she teased.

"No, not you." He started to push himself up stiffly and then stilled as he realized that Rachel was up against him. "I wanted to welcome you and Rachel home."

"So go ahead."

"When you first GOT home. I couldn't even stay awake."

"House, it doesn't matter. I just got here a few minutes ago. You haven't missed anything." He still was looking rather annoyed at himself, and she changed the subject, offering an alternative target for annoyance. "Wilson said you called your mother."

His expression instantly changed, annoyance turning from inside out. "Yes. She was organizing my apartment, she called it. Jensen said she went through my desk and found his office address on Saturday, too. God only knows what I'll find when I go back over there."

"And God can keep that knowledge to himself for a few more days," Cuddy pointed out. "Since you don't believe in him anyway, you won't mind him knowing. But House, you've GOT to rest and get well before you tackle her."

He sighed. "I know. At least she wouldn't really hurt anything, just get it a bit scrambled. Not like . . ." His voice trailed off, not completing the comparison, and his expression hardened.

Cuddy felt a hundred further questions chase each other through her head, and she sternly asked none of them, sticking firmly with the topic of his mother. "I swear, I don't know how you didn't go crazy as a kid dealing with her on top of your father."

There was a quick flicker of gratitude through House's eyes, gratitude that she had not asked for the completion of his last sentence. He, too, stuck with his mother at the moment. "She's actually not like this, not usually. Naive and a bit oblivious, yes, but not this bad. I think she's trying to redo my childhood since Wilson told her how totally she screwed up." House closed his eyes again. "It was almost a help having her there in childhood. I could pretend once in a while for a few minutes that things were normal." Cuddy reached out and ran a hand through his hair. "Could you move her over a bit and let me sit up?"

"Sure." Cuddy shifted Rachel, who was falling asleep herself, and House painfully worked himself up to a sitting position. She positioned the pillow behind his back to help support him a bit. When she finished and pulled back again, she noticed that his eyes were on Rachel. On an impulse, she picked the baby up again and put her in House's lap. He awkwardly moved his arms around her, hampered by the cast and dressing on the left and the IV line, Ace, and bruises on the right.

"I can't do this right," he said, frustrated. His expression was tightening up again, the same one from a few minutes before.

Cuddy scooted over against him, assisting in positioning and supporting the baby with her own hands. He allowed her help, but he was still studying Rachel, his eyes distant, almost frightened. No doubt where his thoughts were, even if he wasn't talking about it. Cuddy debated for a moment before pushing on slightly, though not with a question, leaving him with no requirement to answer. She wasn't fishing for information; she just suddenly sensed that he badly needed reassurance at the moment. "House, you are not your father. You will never be your father."

He flinched. "I caught myself sounding like him this morning. His words, nearly his tone. Like I've heard a thousand times. It just came out, in that moment, under pressure. How do I know . . .?"

"_I _know," she emphasized. "You don't have to be afraid of being around children. You're wonderful with them."

He sighed, wishing that he shared her confidence. Suddenly, he thought of the bear, and Cuddy noted the flare of defiance in his eyes. "What is it?" she asked.

"Nothing." He saw her expression and amended his reply. "Later. Okay?" Cuddy nodded, reminding herself not to push. House was looking at Rachel again. Soon, Rachel, he promised her silently. I have to get my apartment and my life back first. "Do you think you'll let me keep that appointment Friday with Jensen? I'd really like to talk to him before I kick Mom out."

"We'll see. Friday is seven days on the antibiotics; if you're steadily improving, we'll pull the IV then. I'm still not sure you should drive on that trip, though." She hesitated. "Maybe, if you're doing a lot better, I could take you?" The tone made it a question. He tightened up slightly, and she hurried on, "Just take you. Not sit in. I understand it's easier to talk about things alone. I could drop you off and go shopping or something."

"That's a lot of trouble to put you through."

"You aren't trouble, House. Or only at the hospital," she modified, hoping to get a flicker of humor. It was a weak flicker, but she got it. "I'm glad to have you here."

"Yeah, I'll bet it's just what you always dreamed of. IVs and all," he replied.

She leaned over to kiss him. "I'll tell you something, House. Life can be better than dreams."

He retreated into his thinking expression then, and she left him alone, still leaning up gingerly against him, her arms supporting his around Rachel.


	40. Chapter 40

Wilson knocked on Cuddy's door Monday evening and then fished in his pocket for his key, and the door opened before he could use it. "Shhh," Cuddy cautioned, inviting him in with a nod of her head toward the couch.

Wilson entered on tiptoe, then stopped with a smile. House was sitting on the couch, legs stretched out on the coffee table, and Rachel was in his lap. Both were absolutely sound asleep. "We were watching a movie," Cuddy explained, "and he couldn't stay awake any longer. He'd been trying to all day today."

"What do you suppose that picture would be worth at the hospital?" Wilson suggested, then flinched as Cuddy punched him lightly on the shoulder. "I was _kidding_." He held out a computer printout to her. "Here are his labs from today."

Cuddy diverted into the bedroom, returning with the multiple pages of his lab work from Middletown through his admission there. They went into the kitchen for an in-depth comparison.

"Improving all across the board," Wilson noted. "White count is slowly coming down, he's not dehydrated now, H and H are holding steady."

Cuddy, after studying the labs from today, had gone back to the first blood work from Friday night in the ER. She shuddered. "He shouldn't have even been conscious, much less driving _anything._ If I'd had any idea how sick he was, I never would have let him make that trip alone - or at all."

"It wasn't your fault," Wilson repeated. He'd lost count of his reassurances on this topic. "You were dealing with Rachel all week, and he's so good at hiding. Even Jensen said he didn't realize how bad off he was, and Jensen is one of the most observant people I've ever run into, with the exception of House himself."

"Jensen at least noticed that he was acutely sick, even if he underestimated it, and he talked House into staying for the night instead of driving back. He saw more in that session than I had seen all week."

"You were justifiably distracted. I should have noticed more myself, but I was trying to give him space." Wilson tried to turn the focus off Cuddy's guilt-fest. "Besides, we both know how receptive and responsive he is to people's advice."

Cuddy did smile at that. "Yeah, I have noticed that over the years. You're right. Forget gentle suggestions; we should have just tied him to a hospital bed and forced him to rest." She realized what she'd said just after she'd said it. "Just like we forced him to go to the funeral."

Wilson had actually started to agree with her and caught himself at the same moment. "Right." He sighed. "But it's hard to leave him to his own decisions when he's half killing himself. He says he didn't realize, and the scary thing is, I believe him. What time is going to be too much?"

"I know," Cuddy agreed, pacing her kitchen. "This last week, getting shot, the bus crash and DBS - what comes next?"

"Getting shot was because he was a jerk, but this last week he did for Rachel. As much as he realized, he was doing it for Rachel." Wilson sighed. "And the DBS, which I never should have asked, he did for Amber."

"No," Cuddy corrected. Wilson looked at her in surprise. "He did that for you. And at that point, he didn't even realize why Amber was there, so it wasn't guilt. He did that totally for you, just because you asked."

Wilson took a few pace-laps of the kitchen. "I'm working on that letter," he started, and right then, Rachel woke up.

Cuddy hurried back into the living room. House had woken up, of course, and was trying to hold and soothe the crying infant and not doing a great job with either one. Cuddy quickly scooped her up. "What's the matter, baby girl? Are you hungry? Let's get you changed, and then we'll see what we can do." Crooning to her daughter, she headed back to the nursery, and Wilson sat down in the recliner.

"Hey." House was studying his hands, the cast, the Ace wrap, the IV line, all the obstacles of the moment, and he didn't respond. Wilson changed seats to the couch and extended the printout. "Here's your lab work from today."

The distraction worked to some extent, as House picked up the report, skimming it. "Getting better," he summarized.

"Yes, it is. Keep it that way. How was your day?"

"Oh, woke up from my nap, took meds, ate, took meds, fell back asleep again. Usual invalid stuff."

"It'll get better, House. Rachel seems to like you."

"Really? Didn't sound like it a few minutes ago."

"Really. I've babysat for her. She takes a while to fall asleep with strangers. I don't know if it's because she was handed around between so many people at the crack house or what, but she is a bit slow to bond. Which is where Cuddy thought she'd failed at first. For Rachel to be able to drop off easily to sleep in your lap like that, as little as she's known you, yes, she definitely likes you. It took her longer than that with me. Of course, I didn't save her life, so maybe you'll get an advantage there."

"She saved her life," House emphasized. "I made the diagnosis, but she's the one who beat it. She's strong. She couldn't have survived otherwise."

He was still tense, and Wilson decided to change the subject. "Want to hear about Kutner and the asshole clinic patient this afternoon?"

House relaxed a bit. "Sure. Must be hard being an underappreciated asshole in front of somebody who basically never gets riled up."

"Right. So Kutner was working in the clinic . . . " Wilson launched into the tale, and by the time Cuddy came back down the hall with Rachel, they were deep into bantering hospital conversation.

(H/C)

Later that night, after Wilson had left, Cuddy was in the bathroom brushing her teeth and getting ready for bed. House had already gone through a few minutes earlier and was on her bed with Rachel while she had a few minutes to herself. She studied her reflection in the mirror. She wasn't as tired as she had been yesterday, but she still felt tired. She smiled at herself suddenly as she realized that she looked like the stereotypical image of a mother, complete with hair slightly askew. She looked like a mother. She _was_ a mother. After all these years.

Finishing up, she headed to the bedroom and stopped in the door, smiling at the scene. Rachel was on the bed next to House and was smiling happily as he traced patterns on her stomach with his right hand.

"Could you hurry up before she needs something I can't do again?" House asked.

"Looks like you're doing fine at the moment. Got her laughing and everything."

"Reflex responses. All babies have them."

"Yeah, right. Relax, House. You're doing great." Cuddy came over and picked up Rachel. "Okay, baby girl, let's rock you to sleep. I'll be back in a few minutes to get your evening meds, House." She headed across the hall to the nursery, and he could hear the slight creak of the rockers, could hear Cuddy softly crooning a lullaby. He closed his eyes and listened, picturing the tableau.

"Hey, don't go to sleep yet." Cuddy was right by his bedside suddenly.

"I wasn't. Just thinking. Kind of hard to go to sleep propped up against the headboard."

She unrolled the blood pressure cuff and put it around his right arm. "What were you thinking about?"

"Mothers. You really are going to be a great mother, Cuddy." Tears welled up, and she blinked them back. "What is it with you women?" House continued. "If you want to cry at good things as well as bad, what's the difference?"

"Believe me, there's a difference," Cuddy replied. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve, then collected herself again and resumed taking his vitals. "And it's not just women. _Everybody_ cries. Or should." She had her hand on his wrist just then, taking the pulse, and she literally felt it jump underneath her fingers. "What's wrong? Did your father prohibit that or something?"

He nodded slowly. "Too weak, he said. It just increased the punishment."

Cuddy thought back suddenly to the first time - one of the very few times - she had ever seen him cry. It had been right after the surgery on his leg, after he had woken up, after he had thrown Stacy out, after he had berated all of them. In all that, there had been no tears, but afterwards, she had stood outside the glass door to his room and watched him cry almost soundlessly, tears tracking down his cheeks, silently mourning alone all he had lost. "House, it's okay to cry. It's not a bad thing. Even in the bad times, it helps." She drew up the injections of the antibiotics and administered them. "I don't think anything less of you because I've seen you cry in the last few weeks. Even Wilson wouldn't. He totally broke down crying after Amber, and he wasn't ashamed." She saw his expression flicker again. "What?"

"Nothing." Clearly not nothing, but she let it go, fishing out the pills. Bedtime dose of Vicodin and the zolpidem. "I cried for Amber, too," he said finally.

"When?"

"Right before the seizure. In front of Wilson, in front of Chase. I was crying and saying I was sorry." He looked over at her. "And my dad was right. It didn't make any difference. It didn't save Amber. It didn't even make Wilson feel better."

Cuddy sat down on the bed next to him. "House, Wilson was going through so much then, but believe me, on some level, it did make him feel better. He knows you meant it, and he knows it wasn't really your fault, anyway. You didn't make her take the pills. You didn't make her get on the bus." She pulled him over against her, drawing circles on the tense muscles of his back. "And you know something? Take Chase. You said he was there. Has Chase ever once mocked you for that or looked down on you or acted at all like he didn't respect you as much anymore, because he'd seen you crying?" He analyzed it for a minute, then slowly shook his head. "Your father was wrong, House. Crying is not a sign of weakness. And apologizing is not pointless."

He was silent for a bit, then suddenly jumped tracks, as usual. Push him on one subject enough, and he'd dodge away to another while he thought about it. "Did I ever tell you he wasn't my real father?"

"Wilson did."

"I worked it out when I was 12, and then I got actual testing just recently. I cut a piece of his earlobe at his funeral, when I was at the casket." Cuddy abruptly started to smile. She couldn't help it. After a minute, he began to smile slightly himself. "I guess it did make an interesting picture. The grieving family member cuts off a piece of his father's ear. Wilson couldn't believe it. Anyway, I ran the DNA. It was negative."

"Do you know who your biological father was?"

"No actual DNA testing, but yes, I'd bet on a family friend."

"Do you think your father knew?"

"I've wondered. Maybe that was why. Of course, I told him myself what I believed, but I'd wondered if he knew before, even subconsciously, and maybe that was why he hated me."

"How did he react when you told him?" She was cringing, wondering what John House would consider adequate punishment for that.

"He didn't talk to me for 2 months." House gave a sardonic half-smile. "It was the best two months of my childhood, when he was around anyway." At that, he reached for the pills she held, obviously declaring conversation over for the evening, and gulped them down dry.

"Wait a minute!" Cuddy shoved the glass of water at him. "I swear, you are going to choke yourself one day." He took a few gulps to pacify her, and then she stood up from the side of the bed, and House slowly moved down from his position propped against the headboard. Cuddy pulled the covers up over him, then went around to her own side. They were silent for several minutes, and she could feel the moment when the drug started to work on him, tension slowly beginning to dissipate. Wanting to boost him off into the night on a more comfortable note, she said, "House?"

"Hmmm?" he replied drowsily.

"Does that mean that you owe my hospital for a DNA test?"

He opened his eyes long enough to look at her, the familiar mischievous twinkle behind them. "Put it on my tab."


	41. Chapter 41

Cuddy woke up at 2:30 a.m. No feeling that things were wrong this time, just an odd feeling that things were right, which was so unusual that it itself woke her up. She listened for any sound from the nursery, but all was silent. House was in bed next to her, sound asleep. She could hear the even rhythm of his breathing, could even hear how it was a little easier tonight than it had been.

Such a monumental difference between one person in a bed and two. Almost all of her life, Cuddy had slept solo. She had had only a few boyfriends, and even those had had strict limits imposed, almost put on a schedule. Here was the time for sex, and here was the time when she would return to being the ever-efficient, ever-in-control administrator, and never would the two dream of meeting. She ran her house like she ran her hospital, just on a smaller scale. Every nook of her life was scheduled, controlled, enforced - and dismally lonely once in a while at 2:30 a.m.

House was in her bed. Granted, he was pretty much knocked out at the moment, but still, there was a hominess to it, a solid warmth in the additional presence that made her soul want to stretch and warm itself next to him like a fireplace. Limited as her experience had been, she realized that having House here felt somehow more right than anyone else who had been in his position. This felt good. It felt comfortable. In spite of all of his acerbic wit, she had always felt comfortable with him, even in the give-and-take of their work day. She realized now that her lashing out at him so harshly and recklessly after returning to work had been because she was furious that, in a way far beyond maternal, she felt more comfortable with him than she had with her longed-for child. She was bonding with Rachel now, but still, it took fulfillment of that dream to show her that that dream had not been the only one, had merely been the one most acknowledged.

Could this really work? She knew more than ever that he had major issues to deal with - but he was trying. He really was working on it. He was attending and genuinely participating in therapy, he was tentatively working on opening up to her. He was obviously scared stiff of Rachel, but even there, he was trying. He obviously wanted this, just as she did. And it obviously scared him, just as it scared her. Her life was perfectly controlled by design. Bringing in House would push her limits.

But it felt so right, at 2:30, to have him here asleep in her bed. She pushed herself up on one elbow and leaned over, glancing at the IV in the dim moonlight through the window, reaching out to touch his face, in affection as well as taking a quick check just to make sure his fever hadn't suddenly spiked again. She stroked his hair. "I'm glad you're here," she said softly. "I wish it had come about a little differently, but I'm glad you're here."

House shifted slightly, moving into her hand, almost like a cat arching up against a caress. Even in drugged sleep, he responded to her. She remembered again how even in delirium and nightmares, he still seemed to recognize and avoid hurting her. Their souls were connected, and all the obstacles and fears they had spent 20 years listing would never change that. She scooted over closer to him, nestling right up against him, and he gave a slight murmur of protest as her elbow banged into the dressing on his left arm. She jumped, pulling away slightly, then stopped herself in guilt fest. One mistake didn't have to ruin what she had been doing. She leaned over and kissed him. "I apologize," she said softly, and then she slid up against him again, carefully raising his left arm and tucking herself under it, propping it on her chest so that the dressing and the cast were free. She wiggled her right arm underneath his neck, along the bottom of the pillow, and wound it up the other side, taking care not to squeeze that bruised right side too tightly, and pulled him over into her. "Good night, House," she said softly.

Yes, this felt right.

(H/C)

House woke up, surfacing slowly through dissipating clouds of zolpidem. Warmth. Someone was holding him. His experience with hookers was far less extensive than anyone at the hospital would have guessed, and besides, you couldn't pay someone to hold you like that. Even Stacy hadn't held him like that. It felt so right. He opened his eyes and saw Cuddy's face almost next to his own, felt her arm around him. He closed his eyes again, afraid the moment would disappear, afraid something would happen to interfere with it, and predictably, it was he himself who provided the reason for breaking it. The longer he lay there, the more he really had to use the bathroom. Damn IV. He considered disconnecting it himself, but that would do nothing for his bladder at the moment, and it would probably annoy Cuddy. He liked annoying her in a way, but he did not like truly scaring her, and yesterday morning, she had been totally frantic. Whatever had set her nightmare off, he did not want to scare her like that again. He shifted, pushing himself up to a sitting position, reluctantly pulling away from her. Her eyes opened. "House?"

"I'm just going to the bathroom. IV fluids and all. Think we can ditch this thing?"

She had looked pleasantly drowsy, but that suggestion was better than a direct injection of caffeine. "No way. Seven days on the IV meds. Period. And I'm not totally satisfied with your p.o. intake yet, either." She sat up herself. "You need some help?" He had stopped and was just sitting on the edge of the bed.

"I'm okay. Just give me a minute." He rubbed at his leg a time or two, then reached for the Vicodin bottle and gulped down two dry. He looked back across at her, suddenly not wanting her to see him get up with all the grace and poise of a 96-year-old. "Don't you need to go check on Rachel?"

She took the hint. "Let me know if you need anything." She pulled on her robe over her pajamas and headed to the nursery, but her ears were kept peeled for any sound that indicated he needed a hand. She heard the slight grunt and then hiss as he stood, heard him trying to regulate his breathing for a minute, then heard the heavy limp and the squeak of the wheels on the IV pole. By the time he exited the bathroom, she had Rachel changed and dressed and was in the kitchen warming a bottle. House slowly hobbled to the couch and sat down, and Cuddy came back out with the bottle in one hand and the baby in her arms. "Could you feed her while I get us breakfast? Wilson won't be over until later today."

"Sure." House reached out awkwardly, still feeling the soreness in his battered arms, and Cuddy helped tuck Rachel into his grasp. Rachel latched onto the bottle eagerly, her eyes looking up at House, his eyes meeting them. Cuddy smiled for a minute at the scene, then quickly retreated to the kitchen before she could ruin it by making House self-conscious.

Rachel liked him, Wilson had said. Why should she? On the other hand, infants had few expectations, so it was harder to let them down. He studied the trusting face. If only she would stay this little, this trusting, it wouldn't be that hard. But the possibilities for screwing it up would continually increase. Still, she did seem content at the moment. He had to admire her strength since last week. She had fought like a tiger, had beaten an illness to which many adults had succumbed.

He shifted a bit, trying to catch her wrist in his left fingers where they protruded from the cast, trying to take her pulse and assure himself that she, like he, was well on the mend now. As he shifted, Rachel moved a bit in compensation, and he tightened up on her, suddenly afraid that she would fall out of his handicapped arms. In doing so, he dropped the bottle, and it rolled away. Rachel gave a startled sound, not a cry but a protest at the disappearance of breakfast, and she wiggled vigorously, trying to recover the secure arms and warm meal of a minute ago. House gripped her tighter, trying to hold her still, and she stretched out in her exploring and kicked him square in the thigh. She was surprisingly strong for her age, as he'd just been thinking, and his leg was badly bruised from the car impact. She hit him with both feet right on one of the most sensitive points, and House couldn't suppress a reflex yelp. "Damn!" he said sharply. Rachel's eyes widened in surprise at the tone, and she started to cry.

House froze. He could hear Cuddy coming from the kitchen. "House? Rachel? What's wrong?" She hurried in to find Rachel wiggling and crying with progressively loud volume, the bottle under the coffee table, and House desperately and awkwardly holding onto the infant to keep her from falling, but he looked almost in shock, eyes focused far off into the past - or into the future. "House? What happened?"

"Take her," House pleaded urgently, his tone one raw nerve. Cuddy grabbed the baby, trying to soothe her, and House lurched to his feet. "I'm sorry," he said, addressing Rachel, not Cuddy, and then he turned and disappeared down the hall at a speed that belied his pained, hobbling balance. Cuddy heard the echo of her bedroom door as it slammed shut behind him.


	42. Chapter 42

Cuddy stood in her living room, totally confused and helpless. What on earth had happened? House had dropped the bottle, obviously, and she had heard his startled yelp of what sounded like pain and actually had been starting to come to check on him already in the split second before Rachel started crying. But the look in his eyes went far beyond physical pain. She couldn't believe that he would actually hurt Rachel, but he looked like he thought he had.

She was automatically soothing and shushing the baby, even as her mind was chasing down possibilities. With Rachel, at least she knew what to do. With House, she felt at a total loss. She bent to retrieve the bottle from the floor, then went into the kitchen to wash the nipple off. "Shh, it's okay, Rachel. Here. Breakfast is still here." Rachel latched onto the bottle and quickly stopped crying, and Cuddy carefully turned off the stove where she had been making breakfast for her and House. Taking a deep breath, she headed down the hall and stopped to knock on her own bedroom room. There was no response, and after a moment, she opened it.

It took her a minute to spot him, because he was not on the bed where she had expected. No, he was actually on the floor, in the far corner, knees pulled up in a position that looked acutely uncomfortable, especially at the moment given his injuries. His eyes were still focused unblinkingly ahead, and his breathing was jagged, as if he had been running. Cuddy went over to stand next to him. "The bed would be more comfortable," she suggested, unsure how to begin, unsure she would even get a response. He looked like he was not only in another world but in one in another galaxy.

He did respond, although his fixed gaze never left the far corner of the ceiling. "I don't deserve it," he said softly.

Cuddy sighed. "House, what happened?"

"I hurt her."

"By dropping her bottle? She seems perfectly fine. See, she's happy as a clam right now." Rachel was indeed the picture of contentment at the moment, tucked in Cuddy's arms and guzzling down the bottle.

"I scared her," he modified. "I yelled at her."

"Didn't sound like it from what I heard. You yelped, but that didn't sound directed at anybody. If anybody was hurt, it sounded like you. Did you hurt something?" She studied him. His whole posture looked pained at the moment, but his less damaged arm, his right one, was tightly grasping his thigh, his fingers seeming to acknowledge what the rest of him was too preoccupied to. "Did you hurt your leg?"

"I yelled at her," he repeated, totally fixated on that fact. Not once had he looked at her or the baby.

"Why don't you get up on the bed where we can talk about it better?" she suggested. He did not respond. Cuddy sighed again. She had no idea how to handle this situation. "Wait a minute, okay? I'll be back." She retreated to the living room, pulling the bedroom door shut as she left, and fished her cell phone out of her purse. She flipped through the contacts, finding the most recent one only added this last weekend, added Friday night on the drive to Middletown when Wilson had been driving them to the hospital and she had been desperately scrambling for any connection to House, even just putting a phone number in her address book.

"Dr. Jensen, may I help you?" He sounded bright and cheerful as he answered his cell phone, and Cuddy only then realized how early it was.

"Oh, I'm sorry to bother you this early, Dr. Jensen. It's Dr. Cuddy. I've got a problem."

"With Dr. House?" Concern definitely spiked in his voice there. House was clearly more than the average patient to him at this point.

"Yes. Not physically - he's getting better slowly - but he's locked into something right now, and I'm not sure how to reach him. I'm not even sure what happened. He was feeding Rachel, and I was in the kitchen getting breakfast. I heard him yelp like something had hurt him, and then Rachel started crying. By the time I got to the living room, he looked absolutely in shock. Just told me to take her and said he was sorry, which he only says when he's feeling totally powerless, and then he bolted off as fast as he can given his leg to my bedroom. He's huddled up on the floor in the corner at the moment, and all he'll say is that he hurt her and he yelled at her. He won't answer whether he hurt himself at all."

"Is the child okay?"

"She's fine. He'd dropped her bottle. He's really got problems with both arms at the moment, you know. She was fine as soon as I gave it back to her. But he's convinced he's turning into his father on the spot, I think, just because Rachel started crying. He just keeps saying he yelled at her. Which I don't think he did; I heard it. That was more general pain than specifically directed."

Jensen sighed. "Will he look at you?"

"No. Totally fixed on the ceiling in the far corner. He wouldn't look at Rachel, either, even when I tried to show him she was fine."

"But he did respond to you, did answer questions?"

"Yes. Well, partially. He won't say anything about himself. It's all Rachel, and then I don't think he's really listening to me, just repeating that he yelled at her. Please, can you talk to him?"

"No." Jensen's voice was regretful but firm.

Cuddy felt a flood of irritation and disappointment sweep over her. "But he _listens_ to you. You convinced him he was sick. You convinced him to stop running at the beginning of last week."

"Wrong on the second count; he decided himself to stop running. He just wanted my advice on how. But Dr. Cuddy, Dr. House has to be the one to initiate contact with me. I seriously doubt it would work if you just handed him the phone. I have been very careful not to call him, other than the time his mother forced my hand. I don't think he would respond to a forced session even on the phone when he had no warning of it. You are the right one to deal with this, not me. You are there."

Cuddy would have wrung her hands if she hadn't had both Rachel and the phone already. "But what do I _do?_"

"Follow your instincts. They are remarkably attuned to what he needs." Cuddy sighed, and Jensen relented slightly. "You know better right now than I would from a distance, but I would suggest with starting by showing him the baby is all right. Make him look at her. Make him see that she isn't afraid of him. Get down to his level; if he's on the floor in the corner, get there yourself. He is responding to you. That might be more than he would for anybody else at the moment. You can handle this, and you will do better than I would."

Cuddy wished she had half his confidence in her abilities. "Okay," she said reluctantly. "I still think you'd be better at this, but he's going to hurt himself more all curled up in the floor like that. He doesn't realize what he's doing to himself."

"Trust me, you are by far the best person to talk to him at the moment."

"All right, I'll try. Wish me luck."

"Good luck and good skill," he replied. "You know what to do. Listen to your instincts."

Lots of help Jensen was this morning. Cuddy still would have rather simply handed House the phone. "Thanks, I think."

"You can call me back if you need to. Now go talk to him."

"Okay, I'm going." She hung up and sighed again, looking down at Rachel. "How are we going to handle this, Rachel?" Rachel didn't reply, just looked back at her mother with wide, trusting eyes, seeming to agree with Jensen that Cuddy could deal with it just fine. "Thanks. Lot of help both of you are. Okay, here goes nothing." She headed back to the bedroom, stopped before the closed door to take a deep breath, and then entered.


	43. Chapter 43

House was still exactly where Cuddy had left him, still staring at the ceiling in the opposite corner. Cuddy walked over and settled down into the corner next to him, sitting down on his left, deliberately sliding over so that their bodies were touching. House flinched slightly and tensed up. His eyes never left the ceiling, but at least he was aware of her presence. "House, what happened?" she asked again.

"I yelled at her."

"I didn't hear her name. I heard you yell, but that sounded more like a pain reflex than anything. What made you yell in the first place?"

"I yelled at her," he repeated. "Why doesn't matter."

"Yes, it does. And you did not yell at her. I heard it, House. You hurt yourself. How?" He didn't reply, and she tucked Rachel securely into her left arm and reached across him to touch his right hand, still locked onto his leg. "Did you hurt your leg?" Nothing. "You're going to, sitting like this, even if you didn't already. But I think you did. Something hurt you, and you jumped and dropped the bottle and yelped, and you just startled her. Startled her, didn't hurt her. Reflex response. Like you said last night, babies have them. They jump at sudden noises and might cry for a minute, and then it's over. Just like people have reflexes, just like it's normal to react when something physically hurts you unexpectedly."

He still wasn't looking at her at all, and she suddenly picked up Rachel and carefully moved the infant over into his arms. That got a reaction at least, got him to look at her, and she saw the raw fear in his wounded blue eyes. "Cuddy, don't . . ."

"Look at her, House. Look at her eyes and then tell me she's afraid of you."

His arms had tightened reflexively, trying to keep Rachel from falling and also trying to push her back to her mother. The baby was most of the way down her bottle at this point, and Cuddy carefully kept a grip on her and the bottle, not wanting it to fall again, not wanting Rachel to feel insecure or to react just now. House would read any reaction personally. "_Look at her_, House."

He finally looked down, studying the infant in his arms, studying her eyes, content and drowsy now, which looked back steadily at his. "I yelled at her," he repeated, but there was a note of uncertainty in his voice that time, as if he couldn't understand how Rachel wouldn't be holding it against him.

"No, you didn't. Do you have any idea how often in the first few weeks, even now, I have dropped something, or made a noise, stubbed my toe and cursed at the bookcase, and set her off just for a minute? It's just responding to noise, and it's all over the next minute. She's already forgotten." Cuddy shifted closer to him, trying to let him physically feel her presence without hurting him. "And that's just the times I unintentionally made her cry. Do you have any idea how many times at first she would be crying not in reaction to a sudden noise but trying to communicate something, and I just couldn't read her? I felt so helpless. I didn't know what she wanted, what she needed, didn't know how to deal with her, and I felt like a total failure as a mother."

He looked back from Rachel to her. "But you've always wanted this."

"That doesn't mean I automatically knew what to do. The times when I just startled her by making some noise were easier to deal with. I could explain that, and I knew it would soon pass and we'd be fine. The other times, I really was ready to take her back to CPS, not because I didn't want her, but because I didn't have any idea how to have her. I was so afraid of doing it wrong."

"But she knows you now."

"Exactly. She knows me now. It just took time to bond. But startling her into crying for a minute because I've dropped something or made a noise doesn't mean I've failed. It doesn't mean she's afraid of me. It just means she has normal reflexes. It's _normal_ to react to pain, House. And it's normal to cry sometimes. You and Rachel were _both_ reacting just like you should have."

"You don't even know what happened," he replied.

"Tell me, then," she invited.

He hesitated for a minute, looking back down at the baby, and for the first time in the conversation, she let it stall briefly, gave him some breathing space. Up until now, she had been focused on trying to jar him out of whatever other world he was in, trying to make him respond to her and Rachel, but for the first time, she was starting to feel like he was there with them instead of lost in his mind. "I was thinking how strong she was," he started finally. "I tried to catch her wrist in my left fingers, to take her pulse, just checking that she was getting better. That shifted the balance, and when she moved, I tightened up on her, to keep from dropping her. I dropped the bottle. She started wiggling more, trying to find it again, I guess, and she kicked me in the thigh. I yelped, and she started crying."

Cuddy reached over to remove the empty bottle. "Here, let me put this towel up onto your shoulder and help shift her. She needs to be burped now." She rearranged the baby, still keeping her hands in standby position. "House, think for a minute about what you were doing. First, you have both arms injured, so it's perfectly understandable that you'd be a bit shaky on balance. Second, you just got hit by a car, and your leg is badly bruised, on top of a chronic injury. Perfectly understandable that you'd cry out at a sudden blow there. And she is strong. She's whacked me a time or two, unintentionally of course, and I've yelped myself, and she reacted to the noise and cried for a minute. All of that is normal. It doesn't make you like your father."

House's gaze shifted off into the corner again. "I couldn't take it if I ever hurt her."

"And that very fact proves that you won't. Oh, you'll make mistakes, just like I have, but not intentionally, maliciously hurt her. You aren't capable of that." He didn't quite look convinced, and Cuddy scrambled desperately mentally, trying to come up with any strategy to make him see the monumental differences. "House, imagine for a minute that that was you and your father." She felt him tense up against her. "I know, I hate making you think about you and him, but there's a point to this. Picture that whole situation, not just the element of yelling in isolation. Say your father was holding you as a baby, feeding you a bottle, thinking how strong you are." She felt the shift in his posture, felt some of the tension rush out, and he gave a nearly humorless smile.

"Yeah, right. I'd bet a million dollars it never happened, not even when I was too young to remember."

"Right. But keep going. So hypothetically, your father is holding you and feeding and admiring you, and he decides to take your vital signs to see if you're really getting well and are in fact okay. You start to wiggle a bit, reacting to the balance, and he grips you tighter because he's afraid of you falling."

House's eyes were still on the ceiling, but he was listening. She knew she had his attention. "Believe me, he was _never_ afraid of me falling." He shuddered slightly, remembering the stairs, and she gave his right hand a squeeze as she continued quickly, trying to keep him in analytical mode instead of memories.

"So then, in your wiggling, you kick him and hit a sore spot, truly hurting him. He gives a startled yelp, and you start to cry at the noise, but he _still _is primarily worried about not dropping you, even while he's in pain himself, just like you were still trying above all not to drop Rachel this morning when I got there." He looked back at her, startled. He hadn't continued in his own mind beyond Rachel starting to cry, hadn't realized that in all that he'd never let go. "Now tell me, does ANY of that sound like your father?" After a moment, he shook his head silently. "Because that's not your father, House. That's you. And you _are not like him._ And you never will be. And Rachel already knows it."

He looked back down at Rachel, who had given a burp a few minutes ago during their conversation and now was drifting off to sleep. "I didn't mean to startle her," he said finally.

"And she didn't mean to hurt you. So you're even." Cuddy reached out to carefully pick up Rachel. "But if you stay here in this position much longer, you're going to wind up hurting yourself more. Not to mention that I'm not that comfortable on my floor myself, and I wasn't even hit by a car. So can we _please_ move this conversation to the bed?" He nodded slowly, and she pried herself up off the floor and carefully put Rachel down on the bed, then returned to the corner to extend a hand to him.

He accepted the hand, but he got only part of the way up when his leg seized up, and he couldn't help a whimper of pain, even if an immediately suppressed one. Rachel on the bed stirred slightly, then slipped back into slumber. Cuddy was stuck debating whether it would be better, with him halfway, to go up or back down to work the spasm out, but she couldn't imagine how getting back down on the floor even temporarily would improve things. "Come on, House. Try to get to the bed. I've got you." She and the IV pole were all that was holding him up. His eyes were mostly closed, his breathing rapid and uneven. Slowly, they worked the few steps over and managed a controlled collapse onto the mattress. Cuddy reached for his leg, thinking of working out the cramp, and he flinched sharply at the touch, reminding her that he had severe acute bruising at the moment, in addition to the old injury. With the leg this insulted, she wasn't sure if kneading the thigh muscle would help or just hurt him worse.

"House, I'm going to go get the heating pad. Okay?" He nodded without speaking, his eyes closed, sweat standing out on his forehead, and Cuddy quickly ran for the heating pad and back again. She put it on high, draped it over his leg, and then reached for the array of bottles on the nightstand. "I know you took Vicodin earlier, but I'm going to give you some morphine, okay?" She drew up the injection and quickly pushed it into the IV port, and then she sat next to him on the bed, holding his head against her, just trying to be there as it slowly took effect. Finally, some of the tension began to wash out of his features. "Are you okay?"

"Mmm." He opened dazed, clouded blue eyes and looked at her. "Stupid."

"Yes, sitting on the floor in that position right now was stupid. But I've done plenty of stupid things myself. We all do." She picked up another syringe. "You haven't even had your morning antibiotics." She drew up injections of the two he was on and gave him those. "May I look at your leg?" He nodded slowly, and she carefully worked the loose sweat pants down. "Oh, House." No one could have possibly told where Rachel had kicked him, not in all the existing damage. The bruising there was even more extensive and looked even worse than that on his right arm. It was finally starting to fade a bit since Friday, but that only emphasized how badly bruised the leg had been by the car on impact. Seeing that, she could not believe that his reaction to a direct blow there, even from a baby, hadn't been a lot stronger and louder than it had. She carefully pulled the pants back up and replaced the heating pad. "You haven't had the anti-inflammatories this morning, either, but you don't get those without breakfast, and we never had breakfast yet."

"Not hungry," he replied. His eyes were closed again. She had given him a pretty good dose of morphine, especially with Vicodin already on board. His features still looked pained, but at least the pain now only looked physical.

"Okay," she relented. "Just go to sleep at the moment. You need to rest after all of that. I'll wake you up later, and we'll have a brunch instead." He gave a slight hum of agreement, and Cuddy leaned over to put a pillow on the far side of the bed, blocking Rachel in. House provided an adequate roadblock on this side. "House, Rachel is asleep next to you. I know you won't let her fall." A slight smiled curled around his lips. She picked up his right hand, both holding it and monitoring his pulse, practically feeling the drug sweeping through his veins as his heartbeat gradually slowed and steadied. Once she was sure he was sound asleep, she stood and headed for the living room. She made herself a cup of hot herbal tea, then settled down in the chair, feeling the tension drain slowly away. She felt too spent to actually talk to anybody at the moment, but she did take time to send a very short text message to Jensen.

"_It's okay. Thanks." _


	44. Chapter 44

Around 11:30 Tuesday, Wilson knocked on Cuddy's door and then used his key to enter. Cuddy was obviously in the kitchen, with a bustling clatter coming from the sink, and House was stretched out on the couch with a heating pad across his thigh. Rachel was in her swing in the corner, cheerfully occupied with a string of large, brightly colored plastic shapes on a necklace. "Hello, this is your traveling phlebotomist here for daily labs," he called cheerfully. "Might as well get it over with before lunch."

Cuddy came from the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel. "Actually, we just finished up with brunch, sort of. The schedule is a bit off this morning."

Wilson walked over to House on the couch. "Everything okay?"

Cuddy looked at House, clearly deferring to him. "Had some cramping in the leg," he said finally, which was clearly only part of the story. Wilson felt a pang of being on the outside again, but he knew it was his own fault. Things were better but still not normal, and he had only himself to blame for it.

"Is it better now?" he asked, not limiting the question.

"Yes," House replied. Now that Wilson was right by him, kneeling down and uncapping the syringe for a blood sample, he could see from House's pupils that he was under the influence of more than Vicodin at the moment. Interesting. Wilson took the blood sample, recapped the syringe, and tucked it into his pocket.

"How are things at the hospital?" Cuddy asked

"Going pretty well. I brought you some papers from your secretary, and she also wanted to remind you about the banquet Saturday night with donors. Are you going to be able to make that?" Wilson fished the papers out of his briefcase and handed them over.

Cuddy looked at House, not Rachel. "We'll see," she said.

"I'm fine," House replied with the most show of spirit he had had since Wilson walked in. "And I'll be even finer by Saturday night. You're missing enough for me."

"Not just for you, remember," Cuddy pointed out. "There's Rachel. She really was sick last week."

"Maybe House can go with us to the banquet," Wilson suggested, trying to instill some humor into this exchange, trying to grasp some thread of normalcy.

He got the response he was looking for, at least from House. "And wear a penguin suit and watch pompous self-important jerks stroke their egos? No thanks. I'll go do something more fun . . . like throwing out my mother." The brief flare of humor faded.

And whose fault was it that he had to throw his mother out? Wilson sighed softly. "Well, if you two don't want lunch right now, I guess I'll head back to the hospital. Drop this blood sample off at the lab and then do paperwork."

"Whose name are the tests under?" House asked suddenly. He had seen the reports yesterday but had only been looking at the values.

"Brock Sterling," Wilson replied. House had a slight smile for that. "Well, I'll be going. See you tonight with the test results." He left, and Cuddy came over to sit on the edge of the couch next to House.

"He really is trying," she said.

"So am I," House replied.

"I know." She ran a hand along his hair. "How's the leg?"

"Better than it was. Still not normal. Or my version of normal."

"I called Jensen this morning," she said. She'd debated telling him or not, but he ought to know. Better to tell him than to conceal it.

She felt him tense up. "When I was freaking out?"

"You weren't freaking out, House. You were just scared. But yes, I thought he might talk to you."

"But he didn't."

"He refused to. He said he wouldn't spring himself on you unannounced, and he told me that I needed to talk to you myself instead." She smiled. "He was right."

"He's good." House was more impressed with Jensen all the time. No, he wouldn't have appreciated a sudden session by phone right then. Not with the phone so distant and his fears so real. But Cuddy had been there. Through the fear, through the pain, she had been there. She had gone into his dark place and led him back out. He didn't realize that his eyes were drifting shut again until Cuddy suddenly shifted around.

"Pick up your head." He complied, and she moved around to sit on the end of the couch, putting his head in her lap. "Do you want to get up?"

"Well, let's see. I'm on the couch with a beautiful woman. Why would I want to get up?" That sounded absolutely like his usual self, and Cuddy smiled. House closed his eyes again. "How much morphine did you give me earlier?"

"Enough. You really looked like you needed some." She ran her hands through his hair. "Just go to sleep again. It's probably the best thing for you right now."

He felt still somewhat drugged and too exhausted physically and emotionally to put up much resistance. But as he drifted off, feeling her closeness, feeling her hands, he managed to get out one last comment. "Glad you were there . . . not Jensen."

Cuddy smiled. Sitting there with House's head in her lap, looking over at Rachel in the swing, she suddenly felt that life, even if complicated, couldn't get much better at the moment. Wilson's stack of papers was still on the coffee table, but it could wait.

(H/C)

Wilson entered his office after dropping off the vial of blood at the lab. He removed his jacket carefully and hung it up so that it would not crease, then sat down behind his desk. He had about two hours until his next appointment. He had really meant to spend a long lunch break with his friends, but whatever had happened this morning, they were dealing with things just fine. They didn't need him at the moment. He had called Jensen last night for an update on Danny - still too early for any real improvement - and he knew that Jensen was right. It was better for him not to see Danny right now. He wasn't needed there, either. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, then compulsively pulled out his comb to straighten it up again. At loose ends, he pulled out the notepad and resumed working on his letter, awkwardly at first, then slowly getting into it.

_Dear House, _

_I've been doing a lot of thinking lately about everything, and I've realized that you've been a far better and more patient friend than I've shown you at times, and I have been far less of one than I'd like to think. I've just taken you for granted, but it's meant a lot to me over the years. I'm not just attracted to the shine of your neediness, as you put it. I truly do appreciate you as a friend, even if I haven't said that. My life has been far better for having you in it._

_Thank you for bailing me out of jail all those years ago. _

_Thank you for always giving me the one place I could go to when I needed distraction, a place to stay for a few days, or just to talk or not to talk after a bad day. _

_I apologize for telling your mother about your father. It was none of my business, and I had no right to share that. I wish I could sweep away all the consequences, but I know I cannot. But if I could do it over again, I would choose differently. _

_I apologize for dismissing your leg pain at times. I know that it is real. I would not have been strong enough myself to deal with what you have to regularly. _

_I apologize for the detox bet. That was actually my idea, and I put Cuddy up to it. As a physician, I cannot believe in retrospect what we put you through. There is physiological dependence on narcotics after this long, whether psychological addiction is present or not. I deliberately condemned you to a week of hell, then tried to judge you at the end of it. _

_I apologize for going to Tritter. I told myself it was for you, but really, I was also worried about me, my own practice. I was embarrassed to have to take Cameron with me to my own patient appointments, to face their questions and speculations. It has always mattered to me probably too much what people in general think. I also apologize for never asking you how that whole episode started, for automatically assuming that you were in the wrong. I realize now that Tritter reminded you of your father, even down to initiating hostilities and aggression first. By standing up to him, you were in some way starting to get control over your past, I think. _

_Guess I'm going psychoanalytical again. I apologize for that. I really need to leave that to the people who really know what they are doing, like Jensen. _

_I apologize for not believing your leg pain was returning at first after the ketamine failed, and I apologize for lying to you about the Addison's patient. Once again, it was me who kept that charade going on as long as it did. Cuddy wanted to tell you earlier. I thought I knew what you needed. I was wrong._

_I apologize for forcing you to go to the funeral, and I apologize for not listening to you, for judging you without a hearing, when you really were trying to explain things to me. _

_And about Amber . . . I hardly know where to begin. I never really blamed you, except just after her death for a little while when I needed someone, anyone to lash out at. But watching you nearly kill yourself, push yourself way beyond all limits, seeing how important remembering her identity was to you, not because of you but purely on my behalf as your friend, just because you knew how important she was to me, that whole episode in retrospect was the epitome of friendship. You risked your health and your life to give me my girlfriend back. And that was all even before the DBS. _

_I cannot believe I asked you that. You were already badly injured yourself. It could have killed you. It nearly did kill you. To risk your life, to risk your mind, on a long shot with no guarantee or even good chance that it would make any difference at all. You didn't know then that she had come to the bar for you. You agreed to the DBS simply out of friendship for me. I do appreciate that. I apologize for walking out afterward in grief. As you diagnosed during the funeral trip, I have problems with losing people. I was trying to spare myself from your loss, as well as from Amber's. You had nearly died yourself, and that scared me. But I don't think anyone in my life has ever given me such a gift of pure friendship as you did that day by agreeing to that procedure. I never should have asked it. You gave it anyway. _

_Thank you for what you tried to do for her. Thank you for everything you did for me. _

_I told you once I don't think we are allowed to choose our friends. But if I had the choice, I would still choose you. You have been the best and truest friend I ever had. _

_Thank you, _

_Wilson_


	45. Chapter 45

Hi, readers! Only a short update for tonight, but the next two chapters are major. :) Let that whet your appetite. Thanks as always for the reviews. It is now Tuesday night, Desperado time. Remember, it all builds to Saturday.

(H/C)

When Wilson knocked and then entered Cuddy's house that evening, Cuddy was on one end of the couch with Rachel, and House, looking much more alert now, was on the phone.

"Yes, I know, Mom. I meant to call you earlier today, but I spent most of this morning sleeping. I'm still getting well." He looked up at Wilson and gave him a nod combined with an eye roll in greeting, but the eye roll was clearly meant for Blythe, not Wilson. Cuddy got up and came over to take the lab report from Wilson, and they stood there together studying it. She gave a relieved sigh. The improvement had been steady ever since Friday night's low point.

"No, I am getting better. Believe me, I'm feeling a _lot_ better now than I was this morning." That had so much sincerity behind it that Wilson actually did believe him. He only wished he knew what had happened earlier in the day. "So what have you been doing?" House propped the phone between his shoulder and his ear and snapped his right fingers, stretching out a hand for the lab report. Wilson walked quietly across the room and handed it to him. House always had been spectacular at multitasking, and his eyes absorbed every decimal point while he was still at least remotely listening to Blythe. "Yes, it really was painted of George Washington from life. I'm glad you enjoyed the tour. You ought to check out New York; there's a lot there. Museums, theaters." He awkwardly tried to turn the labs to the second page, and Wilson took the printout back long enough to flip it over for him. "What else have you been doing?" House shifted the printout a bit further away, since he didn't have his reading glasses on, but in the next second, he dropped the whole thing on the floor.

"You WHAT?" Cuddy came back over so that she and Wilson flanked him in silent support. "Mom, I asked you to leave everything alone. . . I know, but I don't even want you to try to put it back like it was. I'll redo it myself, probably this weekend. I should be home by the weekend, I'd think. . . I know you messed it up, but I like things a specific way." He sighed. "No. Do not try to fix it. I want to fix it myself. Okay?" Rachel reached out curiously, hearing the edge in his tone, and hooked one hand in his hair. House batted her hand away, although gently. "Thank you. I'll call you tomorrow night. . . we will talk, I promise. I'd really rather talk to you in person about everything than on the phone, but I need to get well before I dive back into my usual schedule. . . Yes, I am taking care of myself. And I really mean it this time. Okay. Talk to you later. Bye."

He hung up the phone, and all three of the adults exhaled simultaneously. "Still trying to fix things?" Cuddy asked.

He nodded. "Hopefully New York can distract her. We're going to have to have a face off. Jensen is right."

"But not yet," Cuddy said firmly, bending to pick up the lab report. "You're doing better, but that's only because you're staying on the IV antibiotics and resting. You could still give yourself a setback if you tried to ignore everything again."

"I wasn't trying to ignore everything before, so technically, I can't try to ignore everything again," House stated. He looked up at Wilson. "Hospital still there?"

"It's been difficult without the two of you, but it's managed to keep the doors open. Are you two ready for dinner? I'll cook."

"Sure," Cuddy replied. House just gave a noncomittal sound, although he actually was kind of hungry tonight now that the morphine and shock from the morning had worn off.

Wilson headed for the kitchen. "Remember, I've got an appointment in Middletown tomorrow afternoon with Jensen, so I won't be around tomorrow night. I figure I can come by for blood first thing in the morning, then drop off lab results on my way out of town."

"You'll be around for a few hours tonight, though?" House called.

"Sure," Wilson's voice drifted back out of the kitchen. He smiled at the stove, feeling suddenly like he might still be wanted after all.

"Not that we don't appreciate your company, but I can hear the ulterior motive a mile off, House. What are you thinking?" Cuddy demanded.

He dropped his eyes. "I thought it might give you a break. Wilson can baby-sit me and maybe Rachel, and you can get out for a while if you're about to go stir crazy. You've had a rough day."

Cuddy sat down on the couch next to him. "I swear, House, I'm going to get a T-shirt made with big letters so I can wear it in front of you and keep the message visible. You are _not_ a bother. I want you here. I'm enjoying spending time with you. Get it?"

He looked at her, still unsure. Years of being told he was worthless were hard to balance out with weeks of being told otherwise. Cuddy went for the ammunition that she had over John House and leaned in for a lingering kiss, and Wilson, standing quietly in the doorway of the kitchen and watching this, smiled softly to himself. If he'd done nothing else right in the last few weeks, he had at least encouraged both of his friends that the attraction between them was mutual. Rachel wound up getting pressed between them, and she finally gave a protesting squeak that split them apart. "Sorry, Rachel," Cuddy said.

House grinned. "About that T-shirt, do you think I could choose style and color?"

"And neckline?" she replied.

"Definitely."

Cuddy grinned at his tone - pure House, accompanied by suggestive eyebrows - and stretched out stiff muscles. It had been a hard day. "Actually, there is one thing I'd enjoy while Wilson's here for the moment."

"What's that?"

"A long bubble bath." Without having to keep her ears peeled for sounds that she was needed.

"Go for it. If you take one while Wilson is cooking, the water can rebuild, and maybe I'll take a hot soak before bed."

"Good idea. Work out some more sore spots. Wilson, do I have time for a bath before we eat?" she called.

"About 45 minutes." Wilson reappeared in the doorway to the kitchen.

"Great. Let me put her in the playpen. Or do you want her right now?"

House hesitated. He wouldn't have minded Rachel, but this near the end of a long and tough day, he was hurting. He didn't want a repeat of the morning's episode, even just the first part of it. "Better put her in the playpen."

Cuddy gave him an understanding smile. "You can still talk to her." She put Rachel in the playpen that had been brought into the living room, then carefully added a blanket and brought over her plastic shapes string and a teddy bear. She turned back to see House's eyes fixed on the bear but distant. "House?" He didn't respond. She got up and went over to touch him lightly on the shoulder. "House?" He blinked and focused. "What is it?"

"Nothing." It wasn't time for the bear. Not yet. He had to get it from his apartment first. He wanted it to be a surprise, something he showed Cuddy, not told her about in advance.

"I'll be in the bathroom." Cuddy headed off down the hall, fighting back hurt herself. House had clearly gotten lost on the subject of bears again, and he just as clearly still had no intention of sharing their significance. She tried to remind herself of what Jensen had showed her, that it wasn't necessarily something trivial, just because it wasn't related to his childhood. Maybe it was just something he wanted to keep to himself. She just wished she had any clue why. With all he had shared lately, some unwillingly, granted, but some very tough things willingly, why lock up on this? She shook herself out of her thoughts and started to run the water.

Wilson came back into the living room to find Rachel happily occupied with sucking her thumb and gripping her bear and House thoughtfully occupied with staring at the far wall. "What's up?"

"Just thinking."

"Thanks. I never would have guessed." Wilson sat down in the recliner.

"Is dinner under control?"

"Yes. It won't need me for 20 minutes or so." Wilson sat there and shifted uncomfortably. The letter was in his pocket. He could feel its weight, far more than the actual paper, seeming to overbalance him to that side.

"Got poison ivy?" House asked jokingly.

Wilson forced himself to sit still. "No, just thinking."

"Thanks. I never would have guessed," House shot back at him. Wilson's fingers, unable to keep still, started worrying at the end of his tie. "Had a bit of an episode this morning," House offered suddenly.

Wilson's head jerked up, and his hands stilled. Was House actually trying to distract him from his obvious preoccupation? Was he doing something nice? "What kind of episode?"

"I was feeding Rachel, and my grip got a little off." He held up both arms, the one with the cast and the other with the Ace and IV, as supporting evidence. "She got to wiggling and kicked me in the thigh."

Wilson flinched. He'd seen House's badly bruised leg. "That's why it was cramping up. That must be why Cuddy drugged you, too."

"Only part of it. I yelled when she kicked me, and she started crying."

"Makes sense," Wilson said, then suddenly followed the thought to its conclusion. "But it scared you."

House nodded. He wasn't looking at his friend now, back to focusing on the far wall. "Reminded me of _him_. I made her cry."

"House, you just startled her. There's a galaxy of difference."

"I bolted, as well as I can anyway, and was back in the bedroom in the corner on the floor, convinced I was turning into my father." His voice was taut now. "And Cuddy . . .Cuddy came back there and got down on the floor with me and showed me I was wrong."

Obviously that summary covered a lot of ground. "Wow," Wilson said respectfully. "That's what you meant when you told her she'd had a rough day."

"Yeah." House looked back at his friend. "But by the time we'd finished talking and I got up, my leg was really locked up. She didn't even make me eat breakfast. I just slept most of today."

"So you must be hungry tonight," Wilson suggested. He didn't want to push this session beyond where House was comfortable, but he was feeling better than he had all day, as well. His friend was still letting him in, maybe with a delay at times, but things _were_ getting better, as Cuddy had predicted.

"Actually, I am. What's on the menu?"

"Chicken Parmesan. And salad. No doubt you'll focus more on the first part of that."

"I might actually learn to like salad eventually," House said. He then shook himself out of contemplative mode. "But what about dessert?"

"What makes you think there's dessert?"

"I don't know, maybe the fact that both of you are trying to stuff me with calories lately?"

"Cuddy has some pudding cups still from my stocking up the other night." Wilson scrambled to his feet reluctantly. "I'd better go check dinner." As he stood, his hand went into his pocket, brushing the paper. The letter was there. Right there. House seemed in a fairly receptive mood. Just hand it over and get it over with.

"What's in the pocket?" House asked.

He chickened out. "Nothing." Wilson headed for the kitchen.

Not yet. He would give it to House eventually, but not just yet.


	46. Chapter 46

Good morning, readers! Thanks as always for the reviews. This chapter carries a warning that it might be fattening for the high sappy content. Next chapter, Jensen returns.

(H/C)

House opened his eyes onto a dusky dawn world. Crazy time to be waking up, but he had gone to bed early last night, still worn out from the day and pleasantly relaxed after the hot bath. He wondered how many hours he had slept yesterday.

Pathetic. Today, he made a firm resolution to go easier on Cuddy and to not have any freakouts or meltdowns himself.

Speaking of Cuddy, he shifted slightly to face her. She was snuggled against him, though still carefully, as if she were being careful not to hurt him even in her sleep. She looked absolutely gorgeous, kissed by the early gray light, looking like a tired angel. What had he ever done to deserve this? He glanced at the clock on the nightstand behind her. It was 5:45. Early, and yet he knew better than to drop off back to sleep. His internal timer set by his father would kick in. Besides, he didn't really feel sleepy, not after an early night on top of his extensive naps yesterday.

A small murmur came from down the hall. House frowned slightly, tilting his head on the pillow, listening. It wasn't repeated. Was Rachel all right? Cuddy hadn't even shifted. She really must be worn out for the attuned maternal ears to miss even a slight sound.

Gradually, ever so slowly, House shifted over until he was sitting up on the side of the bed. He pushed his pillow underneath her arm, taking the place of his body. She needed more sleep. He eyed the Vicodin on his side but did not pick the bottle up, fearing a rattle. He gathered his resolve and then stood up, trying to do it smoothly and avoid shifting the mattress, looking back worriedly at his bed partner as he did so. Cuddy sighed sightly, and her arm curled more tightly around the pillow. A soft smile crept across her lips, and he could see her eyes moving beneath the lids. Apparently a good dream.

He had been to this point standing solely on the left leg and gripping the IV pole on the right, but now he put his right leg down, bracing himself for the pain. It kicked up its usual morning objection, but he realized that it wasn't far above usual. Between last night's long, hot soak and the continued rest and anti-inflammatories, the bruises were starting to be a little less vocal. This was the first morning that he could really feel improvement. Still nothing to write home about, and he was very glad that he had no audience at the moment. He stood there frozen until he was certain the leg would hold, then gave a last glance back and Cuddy and hobble-wheeled his way out into the hall, trying to be quiet.

His bladder wanted to head for the bathroom, but he went to the nursery first to check on Rachel. She was sound asleep again. Maybe she had never woken at all, had just been dreaming earlier. He counted her breaths and made sure they were coming easily, then took her pulse. Convinced she was okay, he went to the bathroom and then, remembering Cuddy's rude awakening two mornings ago, he went to the living room and found a note pad beside the phone. He wrote out a note to her and ripped the top page off the pad. _I'm with Rachel. Let's try to get through one morning without either of us freaking out this time, okay? H. _

Limping back to the bedroom, he propped the note on his side. Cuddy was still deep in dreams, still apparently pleasant ones. He picked up his Vicodin bottle but did not open it there, carefully and soundlessly tucking it into his pocket, and then he rounded the bed to her side and shut off her alarm clock. As he left the room, he pulled the door shut, turning the knob so it would not click as it caught.

Once in the nursery, he pulled that door shut as well, providing two layers of sound buffer to Cuddy's ears, and then he sat down in the rocking chair and finally let himself take two Vicodin. He sat there watching Rachel, waiting for the pills to kick in, and thinking.

Rachel had a teddy bear tucked against her, and other stuffed animals stood guard around the crib, including the oversized gift from Wilson. House knew his bear was quite stylistically different, which was why he'd chosen it in the first place, wanting one with character and not just looking like it came off the rack at Toys R Us. Still, the crib was a vivid illustration of how surrounded with love and care this child was. House remembered that crashing moment from yesterday when eternity had frozen, when he had thought he had hurt her, had thought he'd introduced his father into her loving, nurturing world. Cuddy had convinced him he was wrong, but even the thought of doing so still sent icicles down his spine.

He hadn't lied to Cuddy. He hadn't had a teddy bear in childhood, had in fact had hardly any toys, because anything deemed "weak" by John House had been systematically destroyed. His mother had loved him but had always deferred to his father except on the music. Perhaps she had felt guilty for the affair she had had. Perhaps subconsciously she had seen in her husband the potential for violence and had thought she was protecting herself and her child by trying not to annoy him.

But the fact remained that Rachel had everything right now that House himself had not. Toys, love, security, and a parent with enough strength and care to more than cover for two.

He wasn't aware that he had started crying until he felt the tears running down his cheeks, and then his main concern was to stay quiet, not to disturb the child, not to disturb Cuddy. Once the flood had started, though, it seemed endless. Everything that had been unfairly robbed from him in childhood was right here in this house. He choked back the sobs, trying not to draw attention. Crying was weak, John had said. But Cuddy had said that everybody cried, that crying could be good. And she was right; Chase had never once, even silently, condemned him for his tears before the seizure.

Rachel shifted, giving a small murmur, and House hauled himself up. He was disturbing her. He shouldn't be here. He didn't belong here. He edged out of the room and started to close the door again to shut her off from his sudden flood of grief over what he had never had. Then he thought of Cuddy. Rachel's breathing was subtly changing, and he knew she wouldn't stay asleep much longer. She would wake up and start to cry, and Cuddy would be disturbed from her much needed rest. All because he had gotten up and had then broken down in tears next to the crib.

Great. His resolution to avoid any meltdowns today had been broken already, and he was going to disturb people again, even while trying so hard to avoid it.

_No, he wasn't._

House didn't know where the sudden flare of defiance and determination within sprang from, but it caught him in his current and nearly propelled him down the hall to the kitchen. He opened the fridge and was relieved to find a few bottles already made there. He pulled one out and started to turn around, then stopped again. No, you idiot, he lectured himself. You warm them up. He warmed up the bottle until it felt roughly like the temperature of other bottles Cuddy had given him, and then he returned to the nursery with a determined limp.

Rachel was still surfacing, not yet awake but heading that direction. House closed the door firmly behind him, protecting Cuddy at least, and then went over to the crib. The baby's eyes opened. "Good morning, Rachel," he said. Her eyes widened slightly, looking around the room. "Okay, kid, here's how it works. Your mother is asleep, and she gets to stay that way. I suck at all this, and I know it, but you're going to have to put up with me for a while, okay? Give your mother a break. She's had a hard week. Also, I can't pick you up out of there. Too much wrong with my arms and balance at the moment; don't want to risk dropping you. But I brought you a bottle. Give me credit for trying anyway, and please don't start crying. Okay?"

Rachel eyed him, still looking surprised but also with her attention caught by the flood of conversation. She hadn't started crying, at least. House started to put the bottle in the crib, and then suddenly remembered that she probably needed a diaper change. Which one did kids want first? He was a little short on practical experience here. Think, damn it. Cuddy probably changed Rachel's diaper in the mornings before bringing her out of the nursery and into the living room for feeding. Okay, diaper first, then. He put the bottle back down and picked up a diaper from the changing table, then awkwardly reached over the crib rails to Rachel. "All right, kid, here comes a diaper. Hold still, and it goes faster, and you get breakfast sooner, okay? And this is my first diaper for you, so make it a nice one. None of that smelly, goopy stuff. Save those for later. I'm not Wilson; I don't know all this stuff. All right? And don't kick me. My arms are sore, and one of them doesn't bend right, so it's going to be awkward. But if you kick me and hurt me, that just delays the bottle more. Understand?" He gingerly maneuvered her out of her diaper - just wet, fortunately - and into a clean one. "That's it. All cooperation appreciated. I told you up front I suck at this, but I'm all you've got at the moment, and we don't want to wake your mother up. So deal with it. I have bad news, Rachel. Life will have worse things than this you have to deal with. Better start practicing young. Okay?"

The baby was fascinated, her wide eyes never leaving House. Most people, even Cuddy a lot of times, addressed her with that cutesie baby talk with which full-grown adults belittle themselves in front of children. House didn't have a trace of it in his voice, but the near-constant stream of conversation held her attention, and the tone, even if not what she was used to, was pleasant. She held fairly still through the diaper change, and her eyes lit up as she saw the approaching bottle.

"Okay, here you go, kid. Hang onto it. No, wait, you can't do that too well yet, can you? I sympathize; I've got arm problems myself. I know what it feels like. My legs don't quite work, either, just like yours. Yours will get better at least." House's leg was starting to object to his standing and leaning over the crib. He kept up the conversation, still feeling that they weren't past the risk of crying, and crying would wake up Cuddy. "Damn. Oops. Don't tell your mother I said that, okay? Good thing you're too young to talk. For future reference, though, you shouldn't say damn until you're older. When you're in college, you'll be allowed to say damn. Maybe even high school. But not yet. Okay? That word is off limits." The bottle slipped out of both of their hands. "Damn. Wait, please don't start crying. Just a second, okay?" He moved the rocking chair over beside the crib and sat down with a sigh of relief, then extended his right hand through the crib bars, being careful of the IV, and pulled her right up against them. "Okay, Rachel, much better now. I think I can hold the bottle from here as long as you don't wiggle too much. And why would you wiggle? You get to squirming, the bottle falls away. So stay still. Got it?"

That position seemed to work, and Rachel contentedly drank the bottle, her eyes never leaving his face. She had a curious look at the moment that reminded him very much of her teddy bear to be. Couldn't tell her about that, though. Not that she would spill the secret, but he couldn't tell Rachel before he told Cuddy. That was hardly fair. Given Rachel's current age, Cuddy would appreciate it more right now. "Do you realize how lucky you are, Rachel? No, you probably don't. Or maybe you do. Do you remember that first month? Those idiots sucked at taking care of you. They did try, though. Got to give them that. They tried. By the way, you probably shouldn't say something sucks until you're at least in junior high. Your mother will think I'm corrupting you." He scrambled for some other topic, desperate to keep her quiet and let Cuddy sleep. "This is kind of hard, you know? One-way conversation. It will get a lot easier when you're able to talk yourself. You'll enjoy that. Your legs will work, too. You'll walk. You'll run." A pang of longing struck through him. In another year, two tops, Rachel would easily be faster than he was. "I'll teach you to play the piano," he offered suddenly. "You'll like that. You'd better like that. It's about all I can do. I won't be able to run or play tag or such with you. I wish I could, Rachel, but it isn't going to happen. Do you think you'll want to know me anyway?"

He had heard parents talk about that signature bonding moment, had even heard Cuddy describing just a few weeks ago her moment of breakthrough and connection with Rachel, but he had never truly understood it until now. Throughout this conversation, the child had been thankfully quiet and looking curious. It was pure coincidence - _had to be pure coincidence _- that it was at this point in the conversation, right after his comment, that she abruptly reached out with one chubby hand and locked firmly onto his finger. "Seriously?" he replied. "Do you realize what you'd be letting yourself in for?" Rachel never left off steadily looking at him. "I almost think you mean it." He pulled the empty bottle away. "Okay, Rachel, here's where we run into difficulties, because you need to be burped, and as I said, I don't want to pick you up. My balance isn't good enough. So I'm going to try pulling you upright a bit against the crib rails, and I'll scoot over on the edge of the rocking chair to get closer. Just a few bars between us. Not the same thing, but it's the best I can do. Okay?" He scooted forward and carefully worked the baby upright. She started to shift and gave a small protesting murmur. "Damn. Keep it down, would you? I know I'm doing it wrong. Cut me a little slack."

She took a deep breath, and he cringed, knowing that the crying wasn't far off. Desperately, he started to sing. His stock of lullabies was sadly lacking, and he scrambled for anything soft and soothing and hopefully not containing questionable vocabulary.

_Why do birds suddenly appear any time you are near?_

_Just like me, they long to be close to you. _

"I cannot believe I'm singing this song," he said. Rachel had stilled, her attention caught, but she took another deep gulp now, still not entirely comfortable with her position. House sighed.

_Why do stars fall down from the sky every time you walk by?_

_Just like me, they long to be close to you. _

_On the day that you were born the angels got together and decided to create a dream come true, _

_So they sprinkled moondust in your hair of gold and starlight in your eyes of blue._

_That is why all the boys in town follow you all around. _

_Just like me, they long to be close to you._

Rachel gave a lusty burp, and he let her settle back down into the crib mattress, giving a sigh of relief as he was able to take the strain off his bruised right arm. She looked steadily back at him now, eyes not sleepy but peaceful.

_Just like me, they long to be close to you._

House jumped as Cuddy's voice suddenly chimed in. He quickly turned. "Damn. You were supposed to sleep late."

"I did, House. It's 7:45. Just woke up. Wilson should be here any minute."

7:45? It couldn't be 7:45. He couldn't have just spent two hours with a kid. "How long have you been standing there?"

"You'd just started singing." She walked over to stand next to the rocking chair and look down at him. "Everything okay?" She could tell from his somewhat red-rimmed eyes that he had been crying, but she knew better than to ask him directly about it.

"Everything's fine," he replied. "I'm not as good at this as you are, but she did cut me some slack."

Cuddy put an arm on his. "I keep telling you, you're doing better than you think. But yes, she will cut you some slack. She doesn't expect you to be perfect." She reached over the crib bars to pick up Rachel. "Good morning, Rachel." Her tone had the artificial baby note that House's hadn't. "How are you this morning, hmm? Looks like you've got everything you need."

House sat back in the rocking chair, idly rubbing his aching right arm with his stiff left fingers as he watched them. Mother and daughter, right there in front of him. A family. Indeed, they did have everything they needed. And through some miracle, at least for the moment, he was allowed to be part of it.


	47. Chapter 47

Happy Friday, readers. Thanks as always for the reviews. I can't believe there are over 600. Wow. You've given me a lot of encouragement about writing.

(H/C)

"Dr. Wilson, good to see you again." Jensen shook hands and then held his office door open, and Wilson as before took the chair immediately across the desk. "First, if I may ask something for myself for a minute, how is Dr. House doing? Physically, I mean." Jensen sat down across the desk.

"He's improving steadily. Labs are better every day. He was walking a little easier this morning. He actually is resting, and Cuddy is keeping a close eye on him."

Jensen unerringly picked up the slight twinge in tone at the end. "I'm sure you are helping out, too, and that they appreciate it."

Wilson sighed. "I know. I'm glad for them. I've been trying to push them to make a move for quite a while."

"They will never outgrow needing a good friend," Jensen pointed out. "How are you doing yourself?"

"Dealing. I still have to remind myself sometimes that Danny is found, because it feels like he's still lost. How is he?"

"He's calmer. Not oriented but calmer. We need to transfer him to a long-term psychiatric facility. Do you have any preferences in that?"

Wilson considered. "Somewhere where you have privileges. I'd like you to stay with his case, even if as part of a team, if you could. Other than that, I don't think location will make any difference to Danny at this point."

"I'm certainly willing to keep him as a patient. There is a facility about 30 minutes away. I can start arranging transfer if that is okay with you."

"Thank you." Wilson fidgeted. "I've been working on my homework." Once again, Jensen noted how he dove at the central issue directly, wanting to discuss things directly even if uncomfortable about it, unlike House.

"So what are the triggers you have come up with? Things that make you want to interfere."

"Shirking family responsibilities, like we said last time. Someone actually needing physical care. Also. . . " Wilson hesitated. "I've realized that sometimes I care too much about my image in front of people. If that is threatened, I have tried to do something in someone else's life to fix it and have told myself that I was just benefiting on the side, not as the main thing. But actually, even though I was also worried for someone else, I couldn't stand people looking at me differently. Like with Tritter."

"Who is Tritter?" Jensen asked.

"He's a policeman who had a vendetta against House a few years ago." Wilson studied his hands briefly, then looked back up. "Cuddy and I assumed that it was because House acted like a jerk and ticked him off. Tritter was a power freak. We only recently found out that actually, Tritter initiated hostilities first. He kicked House's cane out from under him one day in the clinic. House is . . . he's always been very sensitive about his leg. That's why he refuses to wear a lab coat, for instance. He thinks that patients don't want a doctor who is crippled. And Tritter is one of those people who get off somewhat on exploiting people's weaknesses. But we never asked House why he did what he did. We just assumed."

"What did he do?" Jensen prompted after the silence had lengthened for a minute.

"House took Tritter's temperature with a rectal thermometer in the clinic, after Tritter had nearly made him fall. House made some excuse to get called away and just left the thermometer in there for a while." Jensen smiled, and Wilson nodded. "That's House. He's got a wicked sense of humor. House probably thought they were even, but Tritter went ballistic. Insisted on an apology, which House refused to give him, and then he arrested House on trumped-up charges. Things like possession of narcotics, which of course House has a prescription for." Wilson hesitated again. "House also told me recently that Tritter roughed him up during his night in jail at some point. And of course we made sure to tell him later, when his shoulder was hurting, that it was just out of a guilty conscience, that his pain was only psychosomatic."

"Did Tritter resemble Dr. House's father?" Jensen asked, immediately realizing what Wilson and Cuddy had totally missed for years.

"Not much physically, but in attitude, yes, I'd say so. Of course, you have to realize that I only saw the public front of John House. Nobody saw what he did to his son. But yes, military authority, absolute control. Anyway, Tritter froze everybody's bank accounts. He got my drug license suspended - I'd been the one prescribing for House. He found an unbelievable amount of Vicodin in House's apartment, some of which was from forged prescriptions." Wilson sighed again. "This is under confidentiality, right?" He knew it was, just wanted reassurance.

"Yes, it is," Jensen assured him. "Why do you think Dr. House would have forged prescriptions? Did you ever refuse to write for him?"

The oncologist's fingers were worrying with each other again. "I usually wrote, but several times, I had made it clear that I didn't believe his pain was as bad as he described, or I implied that it was purely psychosomatic. Some months before Tritter, House got shot by a patient. He underwent an experimental but dangerous treatment at that time that resulted in his leg being pain-free for two months. He was totally off Vicodin during that time."

"Whose idea was the experimental treatment?" Jensen asked.

"His."

"So he was actively looking for alternatives for pain control besides narcotics."

"I know, I know. And the fact that he was off Vicodin without problems those two months." Wilson shook his head. "He was happy. He could _run_. It was like he'd been let out of jail. And then he told me the pain was starting to return, and I refused to believe him and refused to give him a prescription. I think that's when he started to get scared, started to stockpile. The pain really was returning, and he also thought his mind was failing him, as a side effect of the treatment. That was our fault, too; we'd lied to him about his solving a case, made him question his abilities at work. Anyway, he had written fake prescriptions, and Tritter found out. I lied at first, said they were mine, but Tritter was leaning on me. I had to have other doctors come along to my patient appointments. I had to have other people write prescriptions. It was _embarrassing._ So I went to Tritter and sold House out, cut a deal for him, and I told myself that it was for his good."

"And Dr. House refused to accept the deal?"

"Yes. Cuddy wound up lying in court and got House off. I never really apologized. We just sort of gradually went on. But my image . . . I can't stand for people to look down on me, to lose respect for me. And I'll meddle in other people's lives to try to avoid that."

"This is really excellent, Dr. Wilson. You've made a lot of progress this last week in thinking through things. Have you also caught yourself at times tempted to interfere and not doing so?"

Wilson nodded. "Several times. I'm trying. I'm really trying." He pulled a letter out of his pocket. "Here's the letter I wrote Danny."

Jensen unfolded it and read.

_Dear Danny, _

_I started writing this before you were found, and I've just discovered you at the hospital since then. I hope someday I can give it to you and you can read it. _

_I'm sorry for hanging up the phone that night back in med school. If I had it to do over again, I think what I'd change would be far before that, though. I did need to study that night, but you needed someone, too. _

_I always resented the rest of the family for not pitching in, but in a way, it almost felt good at times before I went to med school and got so busy. I was the one dealing with things. I was the one helping out. I was the one making a difference for you. I almost enjoyed that. It made me feel needed. Yes, the family wasn't there, but there were many times that I could have tried bringing someone else in as support, even for myself, and I did not. Part of me enjoyed carrying that burden, enjoyed telling myself that I was living up to what none of the others were. _

_I should have sought professional help and help of friends much earlier, for me as well as you, because even if you hadn't accepted it, I needed it. Carrying such a burden alone isn't healthy. _

_I realize now that you needed far more than me growing up. I'm sorry the family weren't there, and I'm sorry that I wasn't enough, but most of all, I'm sorry for lying to myself and to you that I could be enough. I couldn't. You needed more help than I could give you. I wish I had admitted that sooner. I wish you had had anybody else available on that night. It was my doing as much as yours that made me the only one available. I had shut others out, even the few others who had tried to be a support. I wanted to be everything for you. I couldn't. Nobody can be everything for another person with zero additional support and hold up forever under the strain. _

_I'm sorry for lying to you that I was enough. I know that your problems are not caused by me in the first place. For a long time, I told myself it was all my fault. That was wrong. _

_I wish I had been able to do everything, Danny, in some magical world where it could have been enough. But what I apologize for is not admitting earlier that I couldn't. You needed far more than me. You needed that long before that night in med school when I hung up on you. I couldn't have made others be supportive, but I could have tried to widen the circle, to divide up the load, more than I did. Maybe it still wouldn't have been enough, but I should have tried. _

_I hope someday we can have a conversation again, face to face. I would like to be your friend, your brother. Not your lifeline any more, because that was too much for any one person to deal with alone, and you need professional help, not just a well-intentioned brother, but I would like to be your friend. I would like to get to know you as a person. I never really did. Maybe, now that you are getting the help you need from a network of people who know far better than I do, someday we can get to know each other. _

_Get well, Danny. I miss you. _

_Jimmy _

Jensen finished the letter and looked up across the desk. Wilson's eyes were downcast, and a few stray tears rolled down his face, even though most of his tears over the letter had been shed long since. Jensen quietly pulled a Kleenex out of the box on his desk and offered it. "That is a very good and insightful letter. I'm amazed at the progress you have made in just a week. You really do see people well; I think you just haven't used that gift of insight often enough on yourself, to keep things in balance."

Wilson wiped his eyes. "Do you think there's a chance that he could read that and understand it someday?"

"Yes," Jensen said promptly. "I couldn't quantify the chance, but there is nearly _always_ a chance. Would you like me to read it to him, even now? You never know what might connect within, even if we can't see indications of it."

Wilson sat up straighter, surprised by the offer. "Yes. Yes, I would. Thank you. Only . . ."

"I'll make a copy," Jensen said, immediately understanding. "You each need to have one. It will give you a connection with him while you can't truly talk to each other yet." He stood. "I'll have the secretary copy this. Excuse me for a minute."

When Jensen returned a minute later, Wilson was reading another page. He tentatively held it out. "I also, um, wrote a letter to House."

"Do you want me to read it?"

"I think so. I'd like some feedback before I give it to him, and you've met him, at least. Part of me keeps thinking he'll reject it, or be uncomfortable, and part of me keeps thinking it wouldn't make a difference anyway." He held the letter out, exchanging it for the copy of his letter to Danny. Silence fell for another few minutes in the office as Jensen read Wilson's letter to House and Wilson reread his letter to Danny. When Jensen finished and looked up, though, Wilson was meeting his eyes anxiously. "What do you think?"

"I think I'd like to shake your hand." Jensen extended his across the desk, and Wilson grasped it. "You are doing incredibly well very quickly at recognizing your mistakes. About this letter, what do you expect Dr. House's reaction to be? Forget the worst-case scenarios fueled by imagination. What do you think he'll do?"

Wilson considered. "I think he'll go quiet and just digest it for a while. He's not much of one to talk about feelings."

Jensen nodded. "I think you're right. Your problem is that you actually want immediate feedback, an answer either way, even if negative, and Dr. House processes on a longer timeframe."

"Exactly. Like after the Tritter episode, there wasn't any one big moment of apology and acceptance. It was just gradually moving on. That's what this week has been like so far. I've apologized about his mother, but he never directly replied. He's slowly opening up to me again, but there hasn't been a moment of 'it's okay, I accept.'"

"Dr. Wilson, your friend has been taught, I might say brainwashed, to believe that words don't matter and are often false. I think if you are waiting for him to verbally reassure you in so many words that your apology is accepted, you're going to be disappointed. However, I _do_ think that this letter would mean quite a lot to him. The fact that he has lacked sincere words throughout much of his life is no reason to avoid giving them. I also think that he might indeed give you an indication of acceptance, but it won't be a direct verbal one. Open your eyes and watch for symbols, for unspoken things. I definitely think you should give him the letter, and I would be very surprised if he rejected it or mocked you for writing it. And it would make a difference. Things don't need words in return to have made a genuine difference. I also have to say, again, how impressed I am that you wrote this down."

"Thanks. It was difficult," Wilson replied.

"But the act of writing it will help you yourself, as well as helping him. It was a good thing, Dr. Wilson." Jensen paused. "And, out of pure curiosity, I admit, I have to ask you, what happened with Amber? Your girlfriend, I take it? That loomed over the whole rest of the letter."

Wilson sighed. Of all the things he'd done wrong in the last year, ignoring House's sacrifice for Amber - and for _him _- cast perhaps the largest shadow. "Almost a year ago, House was in a very bad bus crash. Bus hit by a garbage truck. He had a fractured skull, and he had short-term memory loss. He couldn't remember why he was on the bus, but he was absolutely possessed by the fact that he knew something important, some symptom that he needed to share. He's obsessive normally, but I've never seen him like he was that night. We pieced it together slowly. He'd been at a bar getting drunk at 5:00 p.m., which was why he'd taken the bus."

"Why?" Jensen asked. "Forgive me for interrupting, but your emphasis with slight exasperation on at 5:00 p.m. implies that this was out of character for your friend. Was it?"

Wilson's attention was caught abruptly. "You know, I've never asked him that, not when he could remember it, anyway. I asked him at first when his memory was still scrambled. Yes, it was very out of character for him. He drinks probably more than he should, although I'm starting to wonder if part of that isn't self-medicating for lifelong sleep problems. Since we've had him on the sleeping pills, even in the week of decent health in between his original injuries and then him getting sick, it was cut way down. But even though he'd drink at times, even get drunk at times, he _never_ let it interfere with work. For him to leave work, go straight to a bar, and get drunk that fast that early, yes, that was unusual. I never asked him again in everything that happened after."

"What happened after?"

"House tried all sorts of tricks to remember his mysterious symptom - hypnosis, sensory deprivation, taking physostigmine, recreating the bus wreck. All of this with a fractured skull."

"None of you tried to stop him?"

"What's the point? He wouldn't have listened." Wilson sighed. "No, that's not totally it. Yes, I ignored his condition more than I should. I think sometimes, we get to thinking of him as larger than life, as invincible. He's so good professionally, and he's so resilient physically. But like I said, I've never seen him push it like that. Never. He actually had a heart attack at the bus re-enactment, went into full cardiac arrest, and Cuddy and I were doing CPR for a couple of minutes before we managed to get him back. That's when he finally remembered that Amber, my girlfriend, had been on the bus. She was a Jane Doe at another hospital with severe injuries. So we went to get her."

"Who is we?"

"House went with me."

"Right after a heart attack and cardiac arrest? And with a fractured skull?"

Wilson sighed. "I know. And I'm a doctor, too. I was too shocked at Amber to really think of him just then. In fact, I was glad to have him along. But Amber went into arrest, and we cooled her off, tried to stop the clock while House figured out what was wrong. He found a couple of things, and finally, we thought we had the answer." Wilson hesitated and looked down at his hands. "And then I asked House to undergo deep brain stimulation on the off chance that there might be any more trapped memories that we had missed." He looked back up at Jensen. "He just agreed. Didn't even argue against it or point out the risks. He values his mind above _anything._"

"Obviously not," Jensen corrected. Wilson quirked an eyebrow. "He clearly values his friends above his mind."

Wilson's eyes fell again. "So House finally remembered everything under DBS. He had called me from the bar to give him a ride, and Amber took the call and went instead. He refused a ride from her and got on the bus, but she followed him. That's why she was in the crash. She had a cold and had taken amantadine, and when her kidneys were damaged badly in the accident, her body couldn't filter it out. There was nothing we could do." Wilson looked back up at Jensen. "He was crying - _House_ was crying, telling me he was sorry."

"Using that word? That he was sorry?"

"Yes. I only found out recently what that phrase really means to him. But I was too shocked at Amber. I was just standing there, even when House went into a seizure. Chase - the doctor performing the procedure - was trying to stabilize him, and I was just standing there. He widened his skull fracture and caused a brain bleed, had to have endoscopic surgery. He was in a coma when Amber died." Wilson wiped his eyes again. It was all still so real. "I couldn't even talk to him afterward. Didn't visit him in the hospital. He was on sick leave while I was on bereavement, and when we both came back, I told him he had never been a friend and walked out. Didn't see him again until I kidnapped him for his father's funeral, and that was only because his mother asked me to bring him, and I was annoyed at him for not going voluntarily." Wilson looked back directly at Jensen. "That's probably one of the most important things in that letter. I've never to this day thanked him for that procedure."

"I think you definitely need to give him this letter. It would make a lot of difference, although again, he probably will not give you an immediate verbal response, or a verbal response at all." Jensen glanced at his watch. "I'm going to suggest something here, but you don't have to agree if you would rather not. It's your choice."

"What's that?"

"You are my last appointment today. Would you like to go with me to the hospital right now and see your brother? He's calmer, but don't expect him to know you. But I thought you might like to read him the letter yourself."

Wilson's hopes jumped, and he firmly stamped them back down. "I'd like that. Thank you."

"Do not expect a response. Not verbal, not in actions. But do not tell yourself that the lack of a response you can perceive means that it did not matter."

"I understand." Wilson started to stand up, then paused. "You're sneaky at times, you know it?"

"Occupational hazard," Jensen replied with a smile.

"You're setting me up, not just to see Danny, but to have a totally flat baseline for comparison so I can recognize House's response better later."

"You said it. I didn't. Although I won't disagree." Jensen stood up himself. "I think another thing that has bothered you throughout your life is feeling that you don't make a difference. You need to stop measuring that so strictly. Some of the biggest differences we make cannot be quantitated or packaged into words, and that makes them no less real." He took his coat from the coat rack and pulled it on. "Let's go see your brother, Dr. Wilson."


	48. Chapter 48

The phone call came Thursday morning at about 11:00. Cuddy answered, and her entire posture stiffened up. "What? I'm sorry, I can't. . . surely somebody else can talk to him. . . no, I know he's always talked to me. . . damn. . . NO. I can't. I'm sorry." She hung up the phone and turned to meet House's inquisitive gaze. He was on the couch with Rachel on the cushions next to him, next to where Cuddy had been sitting until the phone rang.

"Trouble at the hospital?"

"It's nothing."

"Bullshit. They need you, don't they?"

"Other people need me worse right now," she said steadily. "It's nothing to worry about, House."

"Big donor thinking of pulling out? You only get that specific note in your voice dealing with Very Important People or Very Rich People."

"House, leave it. It doesn't matter. I'm not going in."

"We'll be okay alone for a few hours if you need to head in for an emergency conference," he offered.

Cuddy lost it. Somehow the stress of all the last few weeks combined with a sense of unfulfilled responsibility at the hospital boiled over at that point, unfortunately when House was the only target available to throw it at. "Are you KIDDING? You can't even pick her up safely with all the damage to your arms. You're still hooked to the IV, and you aren't even back to your baseline mobility yet. There is no way in hell you would be safe taking care of Rachel on your own right now." She saw the flare of hurt in his blue eyes in the half second before the shields clamped down. "House, I didn't mean . . ."

"Why not? It's all true."

She sighed. "I apologize. I shouldn't have thrown all that at you. I'm just frustrated that I can't be in two places at once." He was still looking down. Slowly, he levered himself to his feet, proving her assessment in the stiffness of his movements, realizing himself that he was proving it. In fact, he was moving even worse than he had been earlier in the day. "House, please. I didn't mean it. Where are you going?"

"Just to the bathroom. I think I might be able to handle that, even as a useless cripple."

Cuddy stepped forward and latched onto his arm, hard enough to hurt, and she lightened up her grip at his hiss of pain. "Don't ever call yourself that. You aren't useless."

"Notice that even you can't deny that I'm a cripple." He shook her hand off. "I need to go to the bathroom, like I said." He limped heavily down the hall, clinging to the pole, and Cuddy heard the door shut more forcefully than needed. She smacked her hand sharply against the wall, wanting to punish herself, and the noise startled Rachel.

"Shhh. Easy. I'm sorry. It's okay." Cuddy picked up her daughter and soothed her, walking back and forth while holding her. "Easy, Rachel. I didn't mean it." Rachel at least would accept an apology at face value. She rapidly settled down, and Cuddy paced the living room a few more times, now worried more about what was happening in her house than what was happening at her hospital. She was at the far end of the room by the windows when she heard the bathroom door open, and she turned around to face the hall, rehearsing further methods of sincere apology in her mind. It took her a minute to realize that he hadn't turned that direction.

With a sigh, she headed down the hall herself. He was in her bedroom, having just gotten himself situated on the bed. "House," she started.

"I'm going to take a nap," he replied. "Think I can manage that, too."

Cuddy sighed. She walked around the bed to the other side and climbed in herself, sliding over right up against him, with Rachel on her stomach. "I shouldn't have phrased things like that," she said. "I was frustrated at the situation at the hospital and took it out on you. Please, forgive me." He didn't reply. She could feel the tension in him, even though his eyes were closed and he was feigning sleep at the moment. "I think you're doing remarkably well with Rachel, and the current physical limits are temporary. You were wonderful with her yesterday morning. It isn't that I don't trust you. It's just if something did go wrong, if she HAD to be picked up, you would have problems. And you aren't totally well yourself yet. But I know you're trying with her, and I do appreciate it. You're doing a great job."

Nothing. He might have been a clothes store dummy in bed next to her. How on earth could she have lashed at his fractured self-image like that, even in the heat of frustration? So many better ways to have gotten her point across. Tears abruptly welled up, and her shoulders started to shake.

"Oh, for crying out loud," House said, abruptly coming to life. "To put it literally. I take it these are unhappy tears, not any of the other assorted variety? They don't come with labels." Cuddy didn't reply, couldn't. She was sobbing, and she turned her head automatically to bury her face against him. She had been trying so hard the last few weeks to be strong, but suddenly, she only wanted, _needed_ to be held. And the person by whom she most needed to be held was the one whom she had just hurt a few minutes ago.

Slowly, awkwardly, House moved his left arm to tuck it around her, wincing as the motion pulled his abraded elbow. "Okay, already. Enough of the waterworks. I can't deal with this." Rachel was getting agitated, as well, clearly picking up on her mother being upset and on the general atmosphere. "Not you, too. Quiet, Rachel, it's okay." He stretched his fingers out from the cast, managing to tickle her side. "Cuddy, I think you need a break. Why don't you ask Wilson to come from the hospital, and you take a few hours off. Go to your meeting or go do something for you. You've been at this nonstop all week." That just made her sob more. She was getting his shirt damp. "Seriously, I think you need a break from us. Rachel, don't you start up yourself, now. Set an example for your mother."

"I just can't do everything," Cuddy managed to get out. "I can't make you two well faster, can't keep hospital donors . . ."

"Who said you had to do everything?" House asked. "I don't remember that being in your job description. Although it would admittedly make your job description much shorter." He was trying to get a flicker of humor in response from her, but there was nothing. Rachel was responding to him more than Cuddy was at the moment. Finally, he gave up attempts at conversation and just held her, feeling totally useless as she simply cried. He did at least manage to keep Rachel's interest and attention. Eventually, Cuddy ran out of tears, but she stayed snuggled down into him, and it wasn't long after that he realized she had fallen asleep.

Now he was in a pickle. His left arm was underneath and around Cuddy, which had been hard to get there and would be harder to remove; his elbow was already screaming. Rachel was on top of Cuddy, although thankfully quiet now and looking half asleep herself. House considered the situation and decided that after all, Cuddy had been right earlier, even if she had phrased it rather harshly. He couldn't handle taking care of things himself yet, not for any length of time without backup.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he worked his arm loose, clamping his teeth together as the abrasion yelped. His discomfort didn't matter; the important thing was to not wake up Cuddy. He had diagnosed by this point that half of her problem was simply cumulative exhaustion. Her nights still involved a few checks on Rachel and no doubt worried checks on him, and even when she got a chance at a nap during the day, it was limited by his own issues. She needed a good, solid stretch of sleep without any interruptions. Finally, he had his arm free. He looked back over at Rachel, carefully moved the pillow to prop her a bit, and then levered himself to his feet and limped on tip-pole to the living room, where he picked up the phone.

Wilson answered on the second ring. "Cuddy? What's up?"

"It's me. I need some help."

"What's wrong? Where's Cuddy?"

"Absolutely worn out and asleep on her bed, and I think she needs to stay that way for a good, long nap that isn't limited to an hour and a half. Rachel is all right at the moment, but if she really needs anything, I can't . .. " His voice trailed off. He did indeed feel like a useless cripple at the moment, even though he wasn't holding Cuddy's outburst against her any longer.

Wilson thankfully didn't need him to spell out the painfully obvious details. "I'll leave right now. Hold the fort; I'm coming."

"Thanks," House replied, a rare tribute from him.

"Glad to help out," Wilson said. "I'm on my way." He hung up, and House had no doubt he'd be here with bells on. Nothing like a call to a trio of needy people to motivate Wilson. House smiled slightly to himself, glad that his friend was there. He debated for a minute, holding a silent differential with the phone, and then he dialed again, this time calling Cuddy's secretary.

(H/C)

When Wilson entered about 20 minutes later, using his key, House was standing at the end of the hall, propped between the doorframe and the IV pole, watching Rachel and Cuddy sleep. "Everything okay?" Wilson asked, hurrying down to take in the scene himself.

"So far, anyway."

Wilson moved in and carefully extracted Rachel from Cuddy's grasp, knowing that Rachel would wake up before Cuddy needed to. House felt a twinge of envy at how effortlessly he picked the infant up. With a sigh, he slowly and quietly limped to the nightstand and picked up the Vicodin and the antibiotics. He hadn't had his noon dose. He then put them back down, carefully covered Cuddy up, then picked the bottles back up to tuck in his pocket and followed his friend out of the room, closing the door firmly behind him.

In the living room, Wilson tucked Rachel into the playpen and covered her up, then turned just as House sat down with a slight grunt on the couch and started to uncap a syringe. "Here, let me do that. Your IV is on your good hand; kind of hard to give yourself an injection at the moment." Wilson drew up the doses and administered them. "Did you know you're bleeding?"

House twisted his left arm, looking at the elbow, where blood was soaking through the dressing. "My arm got trapped in all that. She was crying on top of it, and I was trying to hold her."

Wilson did not reply immediately, just disappeared back down the hall, returning a minute later with the dressing supplies. He sat down on the couch next to his friend and carefully started redressing the elbow. "So, do you want to give me the non Cliff's Notes version of what happened? Everything seemed fine when I was here this morning getting blood. Sure, she looked tired, but she was doing okay."

"She got a call from the hospital that a big name donor was insisting on a meeting with her to discuss his contribution. That kicked her off into a can't-deal-with-every-responsibility-on-earth-like-I-should fit. She finally cried herself to sleep."

"That's the non Cliff's Notes version?" Wilson asked, applying a fresh gauze pad to House's elbow. "Books are apparently getting shorter every day."

House flinched, pulling his arm slightly away and dodging. "Take it easy, would you?"

"There." Wilson placed the last strip of tape. "You'll live. Have you had lunch?"

"No."

Wilson studied his friend. House definitely looked like he'd had a tough morning himself. "Neither have I. Since Cuddy's down for the count at the moment, why don't we just order pizza? She never really appreciates meat lovers."

"Good idea," House said, eagerly grasping the change of subject. "You'd better pay, though. I don't have much money until I get released from this skilled nursing facility and can hit an ATM."

Wilson placed the order as House gulped down two Vicodin, then switched the TV on, keeping the volume down in consideration for Rachel. They watched TV together for a while. "What is it you've got in that pocket?" House asked again, after Wilson had fidgeted with the letter about the tenth time.

"Noth . . . um, I'll tell you later, okay? Not now." This didn't seem like a good moment, not after what had obviously been a rather agitated morning.

"Okay." House accepted that too easily, and Wilson studied him.

"You feeling okay?" House looked tired himself.

"Fine. Getting better all the time, and you have the lab work to prove it. Now be quiet; General Hospital is coming on."

The pizza arrived during the soap, and Wilson and House sat on the couch with the box between them and shared it. By the time they were done, Rachel was stirring, and Wilson scooped her up with a stream of baby-talk. "Why don't you talk to her like she's a person?" House objected.

"She likes it." House rolled his eyes as Wilson departed to the nursery to change Rachel.

The oncologist returned a few minutes later. "Can you hold her for a minute while I go get a bottle ready?"

"Sure. Long as she doesn't mind General Hospital."

"It's nearly over, anyway." Wilson bustled around in the kitchen for a bit, then returned to the living room, picking up the baby and settling into the recliner to feed her. House stared at his arms. Fact or not, he hated not being able to take care of things better by himself.

"You'll get better," Wilson said, reading his friend's expression unerringly. "You want to take a nap yourself?"

"I don't want to disturb Cuddy."

"I doubt you would."

"She needs to sleep longer than I do," House insisted. He was still looking at his arms. Wilson was starting to wonder more strongly exactly what had happened this morning. House seemed pretty locked in on his inabilities at the moment, even more than usual.

"How's your brother?" House asked suddenly, breaking the silence after a minute.

"He's calmer but still totally disoriented. I saw him last night, actually. Went over with Jensen after our appointment."

"How's it going with Jensen?"

"Pretty well. We're making progress." The letter was right there in his pocket. Wilson sighed.

"What?"

"Just wondering something." He'd been looking for a good mood opportunity to give the letter to House, but perhaps it would work even better at a point when his friend looked like he could use cheering up.

"Wondering what?"

Wilson chickened out again and dodged to another question, only realizing after it was said that this might not be the best choice for cheering his friend up. "Why did you go to the bar that night?"

House had been studying his arms again, but he looked up sharply at that. "The night of the bus crash?" He was stalling. Even given Wilson's rather vague question, House knew what he had meant, of course.

The oncologist backed off. "Forget it. You don't have to tell me." He looked back down at Rachel working on her bottle, sweet and unruffled innocence. He had figured House had just retreated into silence, and he was startled a few minutes later when his friend spoke.

"My Mom called me at work that afternoon. My Dad had cancer, you know, but they'd been trying treatments, different options. She called to tell me the doctors had given up, that they were giving him roughly 6 months. She asked me if I'd look over his files, try to come up with anything anybody had missed. I told her just from what she'd told me, he was obviously terminal, and that as far as I cared, the sonofabitch could just die." House paused for a minute. "Then she asked me to please at least, before he died, apologize to him for giving him such a hard time when I was a child and never getting along with him."

Wilson inhaled sharply. "She asked _you _to apologize?" House nodded. "What did you say?"

"Nothing. She didn't know. I didn't want to tell her anyway, certainly not with the team right there next door. But I couldn't say anything, just hung up on her. Then I went to a bar." He looked up directly at Wilson. "Ironically, I was trying to forget. Spent the whole next day trying to remember."

Wilson was speechless. He suddenly remembered House drinking in his office after returning from the funeral, the night he had gotten the DNA tests, telling Wilson that he was depressed because the knowledge made no difference. House had been mourning that night of the bus crash, not the father he would soon be losing but the childhood and family he had never had. Before he could stop himself, Wilson reached into his pocket again and pulled the letter out. This wasn't how he'd meant to do this. Not in this setting, not in this mood, but with this new knowledge added to all of his already-existing guilt over the events of that night, he simply couldn't hang onto it any longer.

"This is for you," he said softly. "I'll leave you alone to read it. I'll be back in the nursery." He stood up, dropped the letter in House's lap, and then took Rachel and her bottle back to the nursery, to the rocking chair.

Not a sound from the living room. Not a sound from the bedroom. Wilson finished feeding Rachel, played quietly with her in the nursery, and kept both ears peeled, but he and the baby might have been the only occupants of the house. Finally, he could take it no longer and opened the nursery door. He checked on Cuddy first - sound asleep on the bed still and didn't appear to have moved - then slowly walked down the hall, Rachel in his arms.

House was still on the couch. The letter was on his chest, his good hand clutching it, but his eyes were closed now, his breathing regular. He was asleep, but Wilson could see on his face the faint tracks of tears still, just like those on Cuddy's face. Wilson wondered how long he had been asleep. "House?" he said softly, shaking him. House opened his eyes slowly, meeting Wilson's. All shields were firmly in place. He clearly didn't want to talk. "You'd better stretch out. Your leg won't appreciate being in this position," Wilson said, totally ignoring the letter, and he saw the distant flicker of gratitude in House's eyes. His friend didn't speak, just turned around, bringing his legs up, stretching out lengthwise along the couch, and then his eyes fell shut again. Wilson left the letter where it was, clutched in House's hand, put a blanket over his friend, and retreated to the nursery again. For the moment, he and Rachel could hold the fort alone while his friends got some rest.


	49. Chapter 49

It was past 6:00 when Cuddy came down the hall, looking definitely sheepish. House was on the couch, totally out, and she turned in a panicked circle looking for Rachel. "I've got her," Wilson said quietly from the kitchen door. She jumped. "Sorry, didn't mean to startle you. She's in here." Cuddy looked into the kitchen to find Rachel in her carrier, happily fingering her shape string. Wilson had apparently been just starting to lay out ingredients and was planning on cooking.

"How did you get here?" she asked.

"House called me and asked me to come. Said he couldn't deal with things safely on his own yet, but you needed the sleep." Cuddy winced, remembering again how harshly she had been sure to point out his current handicaps. "Are you feeling better?" Wilson asked.

"Yes. I didn't mean to conk out like that, though."

"You needed it. You've been pushing yourself the whole last week and a half, what with Rachel and then House. It's okay to crash now and then, Cuddy."

House. Her last memory before sleep was of totally breaking down against him, right after she had insulted him earlier. Poor House. She went back into the living room to study him and then hesitated, frowning. He was sound asleep, but it was almost unnaturally deep, giving an impression of retreat more than rest. She went back into the kitchen. "Is he okay?"

"He's fine. He's just had a very rough day from both of us, apparently. He's been sleeping all afternoon, although I wake him up at intervals."

"From both of us? What did you do to him?"

"I gave him the letter. He'll need a while to process that. I really meant to do it at a better moment, but things just led up to it. What did you do to him?"

"I gave him an itemized list of all the things he can't do physically, with a good dose of irritation and frustration attached." Wilson flinched. "It wasn't him. I was just lashing out. I'd gotten a call from the hospital I couldn't take, and it all just stacked up on me suddenly."

"Yeah, he said there was a donor wanting to meet with you personally to discuss his contribution."

"How did he know that?" Cuddy wondered. "I know he'd made a general guess, but how did he know specific details? I didn't tell him."

Wilson shrugged. "How does House know half the things he comes up with? I've given up trying to figure it out." He sighed. "I asked him why he went to the bar the night of the bus crash. Could have definitely picked a better moment for that, but I wasn't thinking. Trying to distract myself from debating when to give him the letter."

"Did he tell you?" Cuddy asked. She'd often wondered herself but didn't want to remind him of the whole Amber episode. She knew how much it had hurt him, far beyond physically.

"Yes. His mother had called him that afternoon to tell him the doctors were giving up on his father's cancer and giving him about 6 months. She asked him to consult on the case, look for any other options, and when he refused, she asked him to apologize to his father for giving him a hard time in childhood."

Anger swept through Cuddy like a forest fire, sweeping away guilt and sheepishness for the moment. "She asked _him_ to apologize to his father?"

"Right. All this with the team right next door, apparently. He hung up on her and went out to try to forget things." Wilson shook his head. "What I wonder is when he remembered that. He never said, never tried to give me an explanation or excuse. He wouldn't have even had to mention abuse, could have just said he'd found out his father was dying."

"I don't think he felt like he deserved to be forgiven. Even though actually, it wasn't his fault. Just an avalanche of circumstances. Is that when you gave him the letter?"

Wilson nodded. "You haven't seen it, but a lot of it is about Amber. It's on his chest if you want to read it."

She shook her head firmly. "That's _his_ decision. Not yours. Once you gave it to him, from here on, it's his decision."

Right. Damn. He was overstepping his authority again. He busied himself in the cooking, and Cuddy brushed his arm lightly after a minute. "I know you're really trying, Wilson. I'm impressed with it, and I'm sure House is, too. Thanks for stepping in today."

He relaxed a bit. "Jensen is really good. Even with the homework. Are you going to let House go tomorrow?"

"Still debating. I was going to unhook the IV tomorrow morning." She abruptly tensed up, guilt and worry easily displacing anger at Blythe once again. "Oh, damn, he's missed -" she glanced at her watch - "two doses of his antibiotics by this point."

"Cuddy . . ."

"I shouldn't have fallen asleep like that. He _needs_ those."

"CUDDY." She stopped in mid guilt-rant and looked at him. "He's had everything on schedule. He remembered. I had to help him out a bit with the injections, but he did remember himself. And in response to your next question, yes, he had lunch, too."

She deflated like a ruptured balloon. "Thanks." Sheepishness had returned in full force. She was starting to get dizzy with the emotional kaleidoscope today.

"You're welcome. But like I said, he thought of that himself." He worked on mixing ingredients for a minute. "I think you ought to let him go to Jensen. Just as a suggestion, not interfering. He can't hold his mother off forever, and I think seeing Jensen again first would help him strategize."

"Probably. I had thought I might drive him up myself if we went. He's definitely not quite up to a 2-hour drive yet. How are today's labs, by the way?"

"Looking good, but I don't have them. I bolted out too quickly earlier when House called." Wilson glanced at his watch. "He needs to be woken up pretty soon. Dinner will be ready in about 20 minutes."

"I'll do it." She went into the living room and stood beside the couch for a minute, studying him. He definitely looked like he'd had a hard day, like someone who had had too many hard days in his lifetime. She wished fiercely for a verbal eraser, to wipe out angry words said earlier. Finally, she dropped to her knees and leaned over, kissing him, returning to their personal alarm clock.

His eyes opened. "Hey. How are you feeling?"

"Better for an uninterrupted nap." She kissed him again. "I apologize for earlier."

"You were right. I couldn't . . ."

"I wasn't right to say it like that. Thank you for taking care of everything when I crashed. You did well."

"All I did was call for help." He started to push himself up a bit and flinched, acute pain flashing across his face just for an instant before being quickly suppressed.

"House? What's wrong?"

"Nothing." She didn't believe him for a moment and started a direct physical assessment, injury point by injury point. He sighed. "I reopened the elbow abrasion earlier. Wilson patched it up."

"How . . . oh, hell. You mean I did, didn't you?"

"No, I did. You just slid down against me. I was the one who was trying to hold you. Couldn't even do that right."

Cuddy leaned over to plant a kiss on the fresh dressing. "Thank you, House. And thank you for calling for help. That isn't doing nothing." She helped him slowly to a sitting position, then sat down next to him, noting him quickly stuff Wilson's letter in his pocket. "Now, I've got a question. How did you know the exact details of that phone call from the hospital?" She was trying to distract him from feeling helpless, and it worked. His eyes lit up with his mischievous look, and all of her suspicions activated. "House, what did you do?"

"I actually made three phone calls. Wilson was just the first. Second one was to your secretary, to get the name of the bigshot who was feeling underappreciated."

"She _gave_ you that?"

"I went at it sideways. If you ask directly for what you want to know, they have a chance to lie. I was asking for you, if she'd seen you, if anybody else had, if she could have you call me, pushed her enough that she got exasperated with me and said you weren't available even for Mr. Whitson. So then I called him after that and talked to him."

The emotional kaleidoscope started spinning even faster, making her dizzy. A conversation between House and Mr. Whitson contained all sorts of possibilities, few of them good. House would be at boil-over sarcasm within a minute flat. The man was pompous and entitled at best, and Cuddy herself had to exercise extreme will-power to be appropriately placating to him. She looked back at House, and he was waiting, deliberately stringing her along, enjoying her flight of imagination. "Go on, damn it. What happened?"

"He's reconsidered cutting his funding and actually is giving an extra donation designated for diagnostics."

"WHAT? How on earth did you manage that?"

He grinned at her. "I can be a charming bastard when I want to be. Totally fake, of course, but he couldn't hear the internal soundtrack."

She laughed out loud. "I want a full report later, internal soundtrack included. Dinner will be ready in a few minutes. And House?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you for fixing things with him."

That gratitude he accepted fully without reservation, the first such response in their conversation. "My pleasure."


	50. Chapter 50

Cuddy pushed her empty plate away with a content sigh. "That was good, Wilson."

"Thanks. Like they say, hunger is the best sauce," Wilson replied. He glanced at House, who obviously didn't share the appetite at the moment. "You ought to eat more than that, House."

"I had a whole half a pizza at lunch, remember?"

"Whoa," Wilson exclaimed. "A whole half a pizza. It was a medium pizza, too. That ought to last you into next week, at least." House scowled at him but did pick up his fork again reluctantly.

Cuddy sighed mentally. She felt a lot better for her 6-hour nap, but today clearly had knocked House back some, emotionally if not physically. He still looked tired, even given the fact that he had slept all afternoon with only wake-up breaks, and he had been quieter than usual all night after the brief animation describing his call to the donor. .She wished again she could just retract thoughtless words. She wished she could see him fully himself and terrorizing PPTH again.

He was so dynamic usually. So totally in command of every situation. Or had he only been that good at controlling which situations they saw him in?

"Quit it," House said irritably, taking another bite.

"Quit what?"

"Sitting over there mentally dissecting me and blaming yourself for things."

Cuddy tried to soothe him with something that wasn't entirely a lie. "I was just thinking it would be good for you to go back to work. You're not quite ready yet, but hopefully heading there."

He brightened up a bit on the thought. "Any time. Want to guess what I was just thinking would be good for you?"

"Let me guess. Does it involve references to the twins or to my ass?" Wilson grinned, listening to this exchange.

House's tone was absolutely serious. "No. I was thinking you ought to take one of my sleeping pills tonight."

Her whole body stiffened up in rebellion. "No! I need to . . . "

"You need to get more rest than just a 6-hour nap. You're still behind. Don't push yourself into collapse worrying about everything else."

Wilson put his oar in tentatively. "I think it's a good idea. I can stay over, sleep on the couch. I can deal with Rachel."

Cuddy shook her head. "I'm fine. I'm feeling a lot better now."

"Hard to admit that you need some help, isn't it?" House noted. "At least you won't need the pills long term. I think a good, solid night or so will make a big difference for you."

Cuddy started to protest again, then stopped, replaying his words. _Hard to admit that you need some help, isn't it? _She abruptly remembered exactly how much independence House had had to surrender in the last few weeks, how much he had had to admit to, how much he had been forced to accept from them. Confessing to being simply physically worn out dwindled in comparison. She had verbally filleted him earlier today out of exhausted stress when he had done nothing to merit it. The least she could do as pennance was listen to his suggestion. She looked at Wilson.

"I'd be glad to stay," he assured her. "I didn't have any other plans for tonight."

Her eyes went back to House. "Okay," she said reluctantly, and she saw the acknowledgment in his eyes. He knew what she was giving up, and he understood that it was for him, not her. And while he would never say so, he appreciated it.

Characteristically, he promptly changed the subject. "Speaking of plans, what about tomorrow?"

"We'll see how things are in the morning. If you go to Middletown, I don't want you driving."

"You said I could get off my leash tomorrow," he reminded her, giving the IV a tug.

"Maybe we could figure out a way to get Brock Sterling a chest x-ray at the hospital," Wilson suggested. "That would reassure Cuddy and help us figure out what to do with the rest of the day. Purely as a suggestion," he added as the other two looked at him. "Take it or leave it."

"Good idea," Cuddy said after a moment.

Wilson looked back over at House. "What would you like to do, health permitting?"

House ticked points off on his stiff left fingers with his right. "Get unhooked from this damn IV. Go talk to Jensen. Come back and talk to Mom tomorrow night, as near fresh off of seeing him as I can. And then . . . and then hopefully moving on to more positive things thereafter." He still wanted the bear to be show, not merely tell.

"If the chest x-ray looks okay, and if you let me drive to Middletown and back, that's probably doable," Cuddy said. She could understand him wanting to get it over with with Blythe, even though she'd prefer to put it off a few more days. It probably would go best right after seeing Jensen, though. "And definitely, more positive things thereafter."

"You'd said Saturday night was a big donor banquet," House continued. "You could go to that and reassure Mr. Whitson and the other pompous idiots that you're still alive and willing to give them fake smiles and ego stroking, even though your thoughts might be elsewhere."

"Wow," Wilson commented. "I can just hear the enthusiastic response to that speech of appreciation. They'll be falling over themselves whipping out their checkbooks."

Cuddy laughed. "Technically, you could come too, House. The department heads are invited."

He shook his head. "I already was nice to a donor today. I have a quota of one per five years, so I'm covered." He set his plate to the side. It still wasn't empty, and he quickly - or as quickly as he could - pushed himself up to his feet.

"Where are you going?" Cuddy demanded.

"Bathroom and then to bed," he replied. He limped off down the hall, and Cuddy and Wilson eyed each other.

"Damn," she said softly after the bathroom door shut. "I wish I could just erase this morning."

"You were exhausted. He's right, you know, you still could use a good, solid night without a single interruption. I'm sure he doesn't hold this morning against you."

"What I'm worried about is that he holds it against himself. He thinks I really spoke my mind in the moment." She sighed. "Are you sure you don't mind staying?"

"I'm glad to."

"Thanks for today."

"You're welcome." Wilson stood up and started to gather the plates, heading for the kitchen. When Cuddy tried to start helping, he shook his head. "Go talk to him or go on to bed early, just do something together. It's you he wants to be with right now, not me."

"I'm sure he appreciates the letter, Wilson."

"I know. I'm okay. Jensen prepared me pretty well for this last night, told me how he'd respond, at first anyway. If it's at all possible, I really think seeing Jensen and then immediately talking to his mother would be the best possible way to set it up."

"We'll see." She heard the bathroom door open. "Good night, Wilson."

"Night, Cuddy."

When she entered the bedroom, House was still maneuvering to lie down. She stepped across to pick up the medication bottles that he had taken out of his pocket and drew up his final dose of the day for the two antibiotics. "I'm glad you remembered these earlier while I was out of it."

"Believe me, I _don't_ want to go through this week again."

She smiled to herself. She knew what he meant, but it would have been so easy to pretend to take it wrong as a joke. She resisted the temptation. Instead, she brushed a hand across his forehead, reassuring herself that he had no fever at all now, just like the last couple of days. She then picked up the stethoscope and listened to his chest. Things definitely sounded a lot better.

But he still looked utterly worn tonight, like a rock that has been beaten on by a current for far too long. She removed the stethoscope and bent over to kiss him. He had his eyes closed - but he had _not_ yet taken the sleeping pills. Maybe he wanted to talk, even if not about this morning. "I'll be back in a minute," she said, gathering her pajamas and heading for the bathroom.

When she returned, he was still lying in the same position, eyes closed. She climbed in next to him and scooted over carefully, trying not to trap his newly insulted elbow this time. "You handled everything very well today," she started, trying to soften some of her battering blows against his self-esteem from this morning.

He didn't respond for a good minute, and when he did, it was with a change of subject. "Would you mind going on another date?"

Would she _mind_? Not would she enjoy it, but would she mind, as if he was asking if she could stand putting up with him. "I'd love to go on another date, House. Most definitely would _not_ mind it. I had the time of my life last time."

"I was just thinking. Tomorrow is Friday. Two weeks ago, we had the date. Last Friday night, I had the bike wreck. Tomorrow, I'll have a face-off with my mother."

She understood. "Ready for something positive on next Friday?"

"Ready for this whole interlude to be over and returning to the original theme," he said, almost as if life were a musical composition.

"Next Friday then. But I've got a request for you."

He cracked open a blue eye for the first time since the conversation began. "What's that?"

"You made last time perfect for me. That evening was wonderful. Let me choose this time. This time, I want to make it perfect for you."

"Last time was perfect for me."

"Still. Let me do something for you."

He sighed and reverted to her opening subject. "You don't have to try to make it up to me, Cuddy. You were right."

"I was _not_ right. I was exhausted; you were right about that. House, you are not useless, and when I look at you, I don't see a cripple. I don't see what you can't do. Haven't you ever said anything you didn't really believe or mean, just under external stress at the moment?"

He flinched sharply. That had hit more of a nerve that she'd planned on. She wondered if he was getting lost back in his childhood again, but when he spoke, it had nothing to do with the distant past. "I didn't mean it when I said you would never make a good mother. I was just in pain."

"I know, House. Some part of me knew even then." She leaned over to kiss him, deepening it this time, feeling his slow response. Between his still-active bruises and the IV, though, they still were quite limited in how far they could go. She broke away after a minute while they both caught their breath. "So next Friday, may I take _you_ out?"

He smiled at her. "I think that could be arranged." He turned to pick up the bottles from the nightstand, first getting two Vicodin, then two sleeping pills, one of which he offered to her, signaling the end of conversation.

She accepted hers and smiled as he offered her his glass of water. "Cheers," he said, and he gulped his three pills dry while she swallowed the one and then handed the glass back.

"House," she said, unable to resist putting in one final comment, "there is _nobody_ I'd rather go on a date with. You proved to me two weeks ago just how not handicapped you are."

He considered the words for a minute, rolling them around his mind. "Good night, Cuddy," he said finally.

"Good night, House."

Side by side, they drifted off.


	51. Chapter 51

Hi, readers! Friday morning, Desperado time. Remember, Desperado ends Saturday night.

I think there _probably_ will be a sequel, not 100% certain but getting to feel more like it. My muse is a strange one. Quite active, but absolutely cannot be manipulated, suggested, coerced, driven - the few times I have ever tried to _make_ her do something, it backfired badly. She has many times surprised me with what she came up with. But she will do what she chooses to, and there is nothing at all that I can do about it. I have no vote. That said, the odd ideas and scene snippets of her own making seem to be starting to coalesce into another story, which is the key for me. A story must be cohesive and have a definite plot, start to end, not just be a string of random scenes. Like I said, I will never post even chapter one on something that is not mentally worked through to completion. Assuming that this continues to come together, I think there will be another, but it's going to be a longer gap this time, as I have some other things in RL I have to deal with. Remember, patience is a virtue. :) Desperado is in the last handful of chapters, although remember that you can't totally trust me not to have a surprise for you still.

And I still think you will LOVE the last scene of Desperado. Hope so, anyway. It's been one of my favorites.

Pause for a minute here while I slap Wilson after last night's episode. Seriously, Wilson had House sleep in Wilson and Amber's old bedroom, with a million pictures of Amber still around? House, who was hallucinating Amber and just got out of a psych hospital for that? In what universe is this remotely a good idea? If Wilson could not stand disassembling the shrine, he should have moved back there himself and given House the spare bedroom. Or he could have slept on the couch himself, him not having a bad leg. SMACK! Okay, thank you, that felt good. We now return to your regularly scheduled fanfic.

On to 51. Thanks as always for the reviews.

(H/C)

Cuddy opened her eyes slowly, feeling delightfully and uncharacteristically lazy. It was _nice_ for once to not have to worry about Rachel, and she felt a thousand percent better for a long and refreshingly sound night's sleep. She glanced at the clock - 6:00 a.m. - and then over at House next to her. He was still out himself, and she lay perfectly still, not wanting to disturb him. No reason at all why she had to get up immediately. It felt a bit guilty, almost sinful, to be lying in bed, but just this once, maybe, it was okay.

House's face in sound sleep was relaxed. There were still lines of pain which would never be erased, but he looked younger. She knew his leg had affected him drastically, but she had always sensed even before that that he wasn't quite happy or content with life. That was the puzzle that had been House for those who had known him before as well as after his leg, the similarities, not just the differences. Yes, his edges had all been sharper and cutting more deeply afterward, but the edges themselves had been pre-existing. That was why he had been labeled a misanthropic bastard by many.

None of them had ever wondered if something much earlier and even larger than his leg had been the catalyst for his attitude.

She really was amazed and encouraged, though, by the progress he was making in the last few weeks. Even yesterday, when unjustly attacked, he had not struck back, and he had not run, or only retreated to the bedroom. He had stayed and dealt with the fallout. He had not added her fault to the mental tally that he had always seemed to keep on people, an account register of deposits and withdrawals. He was working on opening up. He was trying with Rachel. He was starting to give indications, in tentative words as well as actions, that he really was considering a long-term relationship, a commitment, and wanted it.

She suddenly felt a wave of pure love crash over her. This was what she wanted. This was what had been missing all her life. She had thought she could create a family by adding a child to her solitude, but _here_ with three participants, not two, was the family she had subconsciously longed for. She was suddenly unable to resist touching him, and she reached out gently, still trying not to wake him up. One hand brushed along his forehead, unable to resist checking for a fever, then down the side of his face. She stroked his hair for a minute, then ran her hands further down, careful to not apply too much pressure on his chest, which was still bruised on the right side. Feather light touches. She traced the firm muscles of his shoulders. House might have a bad leg, but his upper body, perhaps in compensation, was quite toned and built. She noted that there wasn't a difference in the size of his shoulders. He obviously did work out, trying to keep himself from becoming even more lopsided than his leg forced him to be. She traced his ribs, too prominent under the skin, and then ran a finger around his nipples.

House shifted slightly in his sleep and let out almost a purr of pleasure, a sound that she'd never heard him make. "Cuddy," he said softly, and the corners of his lips curled up, even though his breathing was still steady. She felt another surge of love. He was dreaming of her.

She resumed her feather-light exploration and had just gotten down to the firm muscles of his stomach, tracing the scar from the gunshot wound, when a sharp cry came from the nursery, audible even through the closed door. Cuddy tensed up, fighting the impulse to leap up herself. She heard Wilson's feet coming down the hall, and when she turned back to House, his eyes were open.

"Good morning," she said.

"Good morning. Are you feeling better?"

"Much. You were right in your diagnosis."

"Naturally," he replied, smiling at her. She loved the pride that he took in his medical abilities even more for realizing that that was about the only area of life in which he prided himself. Her eyes went back to the closed bedroom door, her ears at full alert.

"Wilson has her."

"I know. I'm trying to stomp down that maternal instinct at the moment. Did you sleep well yourself?"

"Like a baby. At least like a baby on zolpidem." He leaned his head back into the pillow again. "I'd never realized what a difference it makes to get a solid stretch of sleep. Sounds crazy for a doctor, right?"

"No. There's a reason why we don't treat ourselves. Easier to see things objectively in others." She snuggled down against him. "I apologize again for that stupid tripwire, though. That's the reason the nightmares are so bad right now."

"I'm glad," he replied. She looked at him, startled. "Never would have been here otherwise. It's worth getting hurt."

"I think we would have come to our senses eventually. You can only contain a fire for so long." She saw his startled eyes. "What?"

"Nothing." He sighed and corrected himself. "I keep waiting for the clock to strike midnight."

"And it all to turn into a pumpkin?" she suggested. He nodded. "It's morning, House. We're already past midnight." She pushed on for a bit of humor. "And besides, to run that metaphor out, you are Prince Charming, and I'm the one out of my depth."

He laughed softly at that. "Trust me, you aren't the one out of your depth. Especially with so much depth to work with," he added, managing to reach down left handed to give her rump a pat.

"House!" She quickly pushed herself up and leaned over him, pinning him down, starting to tickle him, but she felt him flinch and immediately backed off. "What is it? Did I hit a sore spot?"

"No." He looked away, and she settled back down next to him, snuggling in, letting him feel her steady presence. "Being pinned down like that has happened a lot more negatively than positively," he said after several minutes.

She felt a stab of guilt at tackling him suddenly like that. "I apologize. Shouldn't have done that without warning you."

He gave her a remorseful glance, as if he were apologizing himself for his issues. "Maybe . . . we need to work on balancing out the equation."

She smiled. "Maybe we do. Definitely have some homework cut out for us there. But I'll give you advance notice next time." She worked her arm around him behind his neck, returning to just holding him.

"Did I ever tell you about the two hour timeclock?" he asked abruptly.

"No. You don't have to until you're ready to, though."

He continued. "When we were home alone overnight, he would wake me up every two hours on the nose. He called it a call to duty, said he was training me. I had to jump straight out of bed and run laps around the house on tacks." He felt her entire body fire up with anger. "He had a pair of shoes he'd worked tacks into, so they were just sticking into my feet. If I fell, he'd add laps. If I made any noise, he whip me and add more laps. Since then, when I'm having a flareup on the nightmares, it's right under two hours."

"Right _under_ two hours?"

He nodded. "Like I don't want to wait long enough to have him wake me up." His fists tightened in a surge of frustration. "He's dead, damn it. And it's been decades ago. It shouldn't still be like this."

Cuddy abruptly pulled away and got up. "What are you doing?" he asked, suddenly afraid that he'd driven her away.

"You'll see. Relax." She walked around the bed to his side and pulled the covers off, then stripped off his right sock. With infinite care, trying not to jolt the bad leg, she pulled his foot over and bent down to slowly kiss it, starting at the toes, working down the whole length of the foot, taking her time. She finished that one, put the sock back on, and then thoroughly kissed the left. He was back to almost purring with pleasure at this point. "There. Did I make it better?"

He opened slightly glazed eyes. "Might have caused another problem if you'd kept on going much longer, but yes, that's _much_ better."

She finished putting his left sock back on, then shifted up to sit on the bed beside him. "See? Things are going to get better, House. We can make them better together. Just think of all the things we have to look forward to. _All _of them." Her stomach growled at that point, and both of them laughed. "Here, let me give you your last dose of IV antibiotics, and then we'll pull the IV." She drew up the injections, administered them, and then slowly removed the catheter and put a bandaid over the site, picking up his right hand to kiss the spot.

He pushed himself slowly to a sitting position. "Where's my cane?" He'd just been using the pole all week. "Got to go to the bathroom, of course. I've been on fluids all night still."

"It's in the living room, I think. I'll get it." She leaned over for a thorough kiss. "Welcome to the future, House," she said. "We're going to be fine." She opened the bedroom door, and just as she was exiting, she heard his soft voice behind her, barely audible and yet enough.

"Cuddy, I love you."

She smiled and turned back. "I love you, too. Back in a minute."

House sat on the edge of the bed waiting for her, and his thoughts were miles away from his father.


	52. Chapter 52

"Hello, ducklings!" House called out as he entered the conference room. The startled team looked up at him.

"Hey! Are you feeling better?" Kutner asked. The other three were all too obviously zipping it up to cut off any possible comments, given that House a week ago had threatened to fire anybody for asking about his health.

He seemed to be in a good mood at the moment, though. "Yes, I am. Nasty little bug, but it's thoroughly stomped and crushed into the pavement," he replied. The team studied him. House had taken a long hot soak this morning before leaving, and stiffness with which he moved could have been put down to a fairly bad leg day, but his eyes were clear and bright. He was deliberately wearing a long-sleeved shirt that covered the Ace bandage still supporting the right forearm and the large dressing on his left elbow. The abrasion on the left side of his face had been far more minor than the elbow and was almost totally healed, easily able to be passed off as bumping into something at this point. Only the cast on his left arm peeping out of the unbuttoned cuff signaled acute injury. He looked, in short, much better than he had when last seen at the hospital last Friday, even if still rather stiff and achy, which might itself be consequences of most of a week being sick. "I was just trying to convince Cuddy that I'm alive and to let me work half the day today at least, but she isn't quite convinced. Insists I get a chest x-ray. She seems to think I had pneumonia or something."

All of the team members would have bet money on it a week ago, just on visual evidence, but even Kutner thought better of challenging House's assessment right now. He was clearly much better and looked only stiff, no longer febrile, exhausted, having difficulty breathing, and ready to keel over. Kutner scrambled for something innocent with which to stuff the silence. "Um, Cuddy is off taking care of Rachel this week. Rachel got released on Monday."

"Cuddy was in her office when I crossed the lobby a few minutes ago. I was talking to her about coming back to work." Both statements absolutely true, although the order of them was reversed.

"Good," Foreman put in. "I was just about to call her. I'll try her office extension instead of home."

"Why do you need to call her?" House inquired.

"We had a referral just come up from ER. She wanted us to approve any cases through her while you were gone."

"Ah, but I'm not gone. I'm right here. Great timing!" House limped to the whiteboard and took a few extra seconds to get himself propped up while also freeing up his right hand. His leg was clearly giving him problems. Mission accomplished, he picked up the marker. "Symptoms?"

"Maybe we'd better talk to Cuddy," Taub suggested tentatively.

"But I'm here. Furthermore, Cuddy knows that I'm up here. I told her I was going to look in and make sure the office was still here."

"But she doesn't know we have a case now," Foreman insisted. "Has she cleared you to go back to work?"

"I was sick, not suspended. Did I need a note from Mommy?" He turned back to the blank whiteboard. "Symptoms!" he insisted.

Thirteen gave up, knowing it was pointless. House would get it out of them one way or another. "Exertional chest pain, crushing, substernal, radiating."

"BORING!" House objected. "MI. Either pump up his tire, put in an alternate route around the road block, or transfer to the morgue, whichever applies. And thank him for playing. Next contestant?"

"Normal EKG. No rise in cardiac enzymes," Kutner offered.

House stopped in mid dismissal, interest caught. "Hmm. _Interesting._" He turned to the whiteboard and started to write symptoms, wincing as he raised his right arm and then revising his altitude, starting the symptom list halfway down the board.

"You okay?" Kutner asked.

"Small flare of carpal tunnel. Played too much Gameboy this last week while I was home sick." House finished the list. "So no rise in cardiac enzymes. What do the other labs tell us?"

Foreman shook his head and gave in, mentally planning his defense to Cuddy. "Well, the BMP . . ."

(H/C)

It was 20 minutes later when Hurricane Cuddy blew into the conference room. She had finished going quickly through the paperwork on her desk and headed to Radiology, where she had said she would meet House after he said hello to his team and conscripted one of them for a pseudonymous x-ray, figuring that that wouldn't raise much comment, since the team knew he had been sick. He'd rather deal with them instead of a tech when he was there and his identity obvious. Radiology, however, had not seen House. They were going to use a pseudonym, but even so, the secretary could hardly have missed him going in, even if she had no idea he was to be the patient. People at PPTH _noticed _House. With lips firmly compressed and eyes flashing, Cuddy headed for diagnostics.

Sure enough, they were all deep in a differential. "Could be an atypical pulmonary presentation," House suggested.

"WHAT are you doing?" Cuddy stated as she entered.

"Saving a life, hopefully. Neat, isn't it?" He frowned at the white board.

"Did you get a chest x-ray?"

"Great idea, Cuddy. I was about to suggest that. Foreman and Thirteen, go get a chest x-ray, anterior and posterior views."

"On _you_. Not the patient. By the way, I though you all didn't have a patient." She directed her annoyed glare at the team.

"It just came in a minute before he did," Kutner offered.

"We wanted to call you to clear it," Foreman insisted. "He wouldn't let us."

"Yeah, he cut all phone cords and took your cells, too." She shook her head.

"He can fire us," Taub pointed out.

"So can I," Cuddy retorted.

"Not their fault," House stepped in. "They did want to call you. But this is really interesting. All the MI symptoms except for the abnormal EKG and elevated cardiac panel."

"House, you are going to get a chest x-ray, and this time, I'm following you. You're too valuable a hospital asset to risk returning to work too soon after pneumonia. Which one of them were you going to ask?"

Kutner looked hopeful, but House's eyes went past him. "Taub," he said. The least curious, most confidentially minded. "Kutner, search the patient's home. And the rest of you already had your assignments. Add in pulmonary function tests, too. Go!"

Everybody but Taub exited. Cuddy glared at House. "You shouldn't be diving straight back into it."

"Guess the patient should have scheduled his illness better. You ought to speak to him about that. Talk about inconsiderate!"

Cuddy sighed and jerked her head at Taub. "Go get a chest x-ray on him. And this time, I'm following you to make sure you get it. The team can handle the patient."

House stuck out his lip in a classic pout, then turned and limped stiffly out of the conference room.

"We did try to contact you," Taub said.

"Never mind. He's too stubborn, I know."

House stuck his head back in the door. "Change your mind? Great, I'm off to the patient room instead."

"RADIOLOGY!" Cuddy barked out like a drill sergeant, and Taub jumped to it, heading out the door. House took a second to wink at Cuddy, looking thoroughly unrepentant, before following the short doctor to the elevator. She sighed and then hurried after them. Clearly, Taub would need backup to ensure cooperation here.

Secretly, though, she was delighted to see House acting so much like himself. He had a long day ahead and would need to pace himself firmly, whether voluntarily or otherwise, but the part of her that wasn't exasperated was relieved. He was getting well.


	53. Chapter 53

Little short chapter right now, simply because I do not want to break up the next one. Next one will be long enough to balance them out. :)

Thanks for the reviews.

(H/C)

"Great. Let me know if anything else comes up, otherwise add one more to our score card." House snapped his cell phone shut. "Patient is responding to conservative treatment. It's class B, not Class A, fortunately. Hopefully he can dodge surgery."

"It tastes better before it gets cold," Wilson pointed out. House picked up his fork. They were having a late lunch at Cuddy's before Wilson went to work and Cuddy, Rachel, and House headed for Middletown.

House's eyes were still glowing. "They would have missed that chest x-ray. Foreman even disagreed with me." The patient of the morning had been diagnosed at this point with a very subtle aortic dissection by MRI, with the further imaging insisted upon by House's reading of the chest x-ray. House thought that the mediastinum was very slightly widened, an opinion that no one else on the team shared, although Kutner of course was trying hard to see what his boss saw, simply failing to. Foreman had flat-out disagreed. The MRI had confirmed, though.

"Yes, you're an awesome doctor. We all know. But it still tastes better before it gets cold," Wilson insisted.

House rolled his eyes at him. "Cut me some slack. I've been away from medical puzzles for a week. I was going into withdrawal." He wolfed down a couple of bites.

"Speaking of chest x-rays, remember that yours still has a few infiltrates in the bases," Cuddy put in.

"Very faint infiltrates, hardly worth mentioning," House pointed out. "Compared to the one last Friday night, it's a whole lot better. This one's practically normal."

"Even so, I want you on oral antibiotics for the next 10 days, and by that I mean actually taking them on schedule. And I want you to rest and not push yourself. Full nights of sleep each night." Cuddy's tone was firm.

"I'm fine," House said. He really did look much better, and he was right, today's chest x-ray had been a world of improvement over the one from Middletown. He was clearly on the mend, but Cuddy intended to keep a close eye on him.

"Well, I'd better get to the hospital," Wilson said. He stood up, tickled Rachel under her chin, and pulled on his coat. "Have a good afternoon, everybody."

"You don't really have to take me," House insisted after Wilson left.

"Yes, I do," Cuddy said firmly. "I realize you're on an adrenaline high right now, but you are not back to normal yet, and you don't need four hours round trip of driving today. Save your energy for your mother."

"What are you going to do?" House asked. "Hanging around waiting rooms gets old fast."

"I thought we might go to a mall or something. Look through toy shops. I might get her a new bear." Cuddy stuck that last in just to insert the word into conversation, and sure enough, House tensed up instantly. What on earth was his problem with bears? And why on earth would he refuse to tell her, if it had nothing to do with his childhood?

"Good idea," he said softly after a moment, and he diligently applied his full attention to his plate. Cuddy watched him surreptitiously as she finished her own lunch, but he seemed totally lost in thought, not even aware of her glances.

She sighed mentally and stood up. "I'm going to run through the bathroom and make sure her diaper bag has everything I need. Keep an eye on her for a few minutes, okay?"

"Sure." House scooted his chair over closer to Rachel, whose carrier was on the table. "I can probably manage that as long as she doesn't really need anything." His words weren't sarcastic at all, just matter of fact.

Cuddy sighed again, wishing she could kick him out of the handicapped rut she herself had kicked him into. Having no words of apology other than those already offered, she headed back to the bathroom and then to the nursery. Maybe Jensen could talk some sense into him. She knew that House wanted to talk about strategies with his mother, but Jensen knew from her call Tuesday that this week also had had a few issues. Hopefully he would be perceptive enough to extract the story of yesterday as well as Tuesday morning and help House deal with it better.

When she came down the hall a few minutes later, diaper bag slung over her shoulder, House was trying to explain to Rachel the correct geometric name of each shape on her brightly colored shape string. Cuddy stood there for a moment smiling, and House looked up at her. "Never too early to start lessons," he said.

"I think she needs to start out with something like Mama before she progresses to parallelogram."

"I was not telling her parallelogram. Precision, Cuddy. It's a rhombus." House pushed himself to his feet, flinching.

"Did you . . ."

"Whatever you're about to ask, yes, I took it." He gave his pocket a hard pat, producing a rattle like a pharmacy. Rachel came to attention slightly and cooed. House rattled again, and she smiled. "Nope, kid, you can't have these to play with. There are better-tasting rattles available. Ask your mother for Tic-Tacs."

"Tic-Tacs aren't appropriate for the under-6-month age group," Cuddy stated drily. "Are you ready?"

"Let me go through the bathroom." He limped off down the hall, and Cuddy fished an actual rattle out of the playpen and offered it to Rachel. Rachel smiled at her. "Okay," House stated, coming back into the living room. "Only I call the front seat this time."

Cuddy smiled. House stood by rather helplessly while she collected purse, diaper bag, and carrier. With two sore arms, the better of which had to deal with his cane and support his worse-than-usual leg, he wasn't really able to carry much of anything at the moment. "I'll lock the door," he offered.

"Thank you." Cuddy headed out to her car, and by the time she had Rachel buckled into her car seat in the back, House was in the front seat. "You can take a nap on the way up if you want."

"Referring to her or me? Good idea for her, but I'm fine."

"You've just got a long day ahead still, between Jensen and your mother."

"I'm not tired," he insisted. She started the car, and House immediately started fiddling with the radio settings, changing stations every song. She left him alone, focusing on the fairly heavy traffic until they cleared the city limits. Once out on the highway, she looked over at him, planning to give her approval of the current radio station, which he apparently liked, too, as it had been on for several songs now.

He wasn't listening to it. He was sound asleep, his head leaning against the window, his mouth slightly open. Cuddy glanced in the rear-view mirror to see Rachel in a fairly similar posture in her car seat. "Nope, not tired at all, are you? Perfectly fine," she said, but her voice was soft.

With a smile on her face, she pointed the car towards Middletown.


	54. Chapter 54

"Dr. House, good to see you. You are looking much better." Jensen held the door into his inner office open. House took the chair with the ottoman again, and Jensen sat down next to him. "How are you feeling?"

"Good as new," House said, flinching as he used his two injured arms awkwardly to bring his bruised leg up to the ottoman. Jensen had a private smile for that, firmly hidden. He had already come to his own conclusion that House would downplay anything physically by several powers.

"How was the week staying with Dr. Cuddy?" Jensen asked.

"You don't need to be subtle; she already told me that she called you when I flipped out Tuesday morning." House made direct eye contact, unusual for him in these sessions. "Thanks for not trying to fix me by phone."

"You're welcome. I didn't think it would work."

House shook his head. "I don't think it would have. Don't like surprises. I'm not even sure I would have heard you. I heard her, but that was almost at a distance, and she was right there, not on the phone."

"Were you hearing anything else just then? I'm not limiting that to hallucinations. Memories can be auditory."

House had looked down at his hands again. He considered for a minute, then nodded. "Rachel crying. I was still remembering her crying, even after she wasn't, and I was hearing my father, or remembering hearing him."

"What were you remembering him saying?"

House stalled. "Could I have a cup of coffee?"

"Certainly." Jensen got up and picked up his own cup from the desk, getting a cup for both of them from the machine in the corner. He returned and handed House's to him, then sat back down, waiting patiently. He would have prompted some patients, but House just needed space in which to answer.

"Crying," House replied finally. "I only tried it a few times, and it always made things worse. Dad would tell me how weak it was, and he would raise the punishment. Any consequences doubled. I had to be silent, like a good soldier." That last part was obviously a direct quote. "When Rachel started crying . . . I . . . I was afraid . . ."

"You were afraid of both having made her cry, possibly signifying pain, and that if you attempted to quiet her, you might be forbidding any expression as your father did?" House nodded after a minute.

Interesting that he seemed to associate crying, at least as a child, purely with punishment. "Can you recall any occasion in your childhood when you cried, other than the few times initially that you cried while being hurt by your father?"

House had to stop and think about it. Finally, he shook his head.

"Never? Never when you had been hurt otherwise, or when you were just unhappy? Did you have any relatives who died while you were growing up?"

"One grandmother." House smiled slightly. "I called her Oma."

"You connected with her?"

"We stayed with her once. Mom and me. Dad was off somewhere we couldn't go. Yes, I connected with her. She was the first adult I'd met whom I felt understood me. I couldn't get her mad, either."

"You tried?"

He nodded. "Almost as a scientific experiment. She would correct me for things if I deserved it, but she'd never get mad. I _could not_ make her mad."

"You had no prior experience of loving discipline from adults?" House shook his head. "What about your mother?"

"She was the classic wait until your father gets home. Which actually was a pretty good deterrent. I tried to be good for her, to avoid that."

"What was your response when your grandmother died? Did you go to the funeral?"

"We were in another country, and we didn't find out until later. The letter got lost - we did move around a lot. At least Dad said it got lost. I wondered if it really did. It could have."

"Did you ever cry for her, after you found out?"

House shook his head. "I got mad. I went out and threw rocks at my father's car."

"Deliberately seeking punishment?" House didn't respond to that. "For what? Why would you feel you should be punished? Or is it that you wanted to cry for her but did not know how, so you deliberately put yourself in a situation where you could not do so and had to control the impulse?" A muscle high on the side of House's face twitched there, but he still was studying his hands. "Did you ever in your lifetime see your father cry?"

"Of course not. I doubt he ever did."

"Probably inaccurate. To be that consistently strict on that subject was most likely a ban on himself that extended over to you. I would hazard a guess that he did cry when he was younger and had severe consequences, either from his own parents or from a close family friend who was not truly a friend. This Oma, was she his mother?"

House shook his head. "My mother's mother. Dad's parents were already dead. I never knew them." His head tilted slightly. "I cannot picture my dad crying. Ever."

"When was the last time that you yourself cried?"

House immediately looked embarrassed. Jensen let the silence extend. "Yesterday," he replied finally. "And the day before, too."

"Why? What happened on those days?"

"Not yesterday," House said, abruptly slamming a gate across that pathway. He wasn't ready to address Wilson's letter yet, still processing it, and part of him felt that when he was ready, he really ought to respond to Wilson himself, not discuss it with Jensen beforehand.

"Okay. Wednesday, then," Jensen said amiably. House looked startled. "Nobody is going to force you into anything. I realize this whole setting is new and difficult for you, and you are doing very well with it. If you aren't ready to talk about some things, we will leave it for now and return to those down the road."

"That doesn't . . . annoy you?" House asked.

"Not at all. Why do you expect it to?"

House immediately dodged. "Wednesday morning." He paused and took a gulp of his coffee. "I woke up early and wanted to let Cuddy sleep. Turned off the alarm clock. Rachel made a noise, and I went to check on her, but she was just dreaming. So I sat there and watched her sleep for a while, with all her toys, in her neat little room. It just . . . got to me. I don't even know when I started crying."

"You were surrounded by everything you didn't have as a child," Jensen commented.

"Exactly."

"That's good. Crying is one of the most common means of expressing grief, among other things. There is no shame in it."

"I disturbed her, though."

"The child?" House nodded. "Wasn't it getting close to usual time for her to wake up anyway?"

"Yes. So I went to get her a bottle. I managed to feed her in the crib without picking her up. Can't do that safely yet." House held out both arms in illustration. "She didn't mind, though. I was talking to her, even singing a bit later to keep her occupied, but she didn't wake her mother up. She wasn't holding Tuesday against me."

"Why should she? From what I gathered from Dr. Cuddy, you hurt yourself somehow, cried out, and dropped her bottle, and she started crying. That is purely a startle reaction, or even annoyance at losing the bottle. I doubt she remembered it 5 minutes later. How did you hurt yourself, by the way?"

"She kicked me in the leg. She didn't mean to. It was just an accident."

"You absolve her so easily and yet not yourself?" House was silent again. "Startling her was just as much of an accident. You are no more at fault in that than she was. The idea of caring for a child terrifies you, doesn't it?"

House took another few swallows of coffee. "How do I know I won't become him?" he asked after the silence had lengthened for a minute.

"How do you know you will?" Jensen reversed.

"I don't _know._ But there is a chance. I've read the statistics. Cuddy showed me how differently my father would have reacted on Tuesday, if it had been me and him. So that once, it was okay. But how do I know down the road?"

"The very fact that you worry so much about it is a strong indication that you won't."

"But there is no guarantee."

"Of course not. There are very few guarantees in life. But there are very strong probabilities, even strong enough to near statistical certainties. I have a child myself, a daughter. She's 7 years old. I would have no qualms whatsoever letting you babysit her, just after a few sessions, and believe me, the same is not true of the majority of my patients."

House was startled into eye contact again. His eyes dipped to Jensen's bare left hand after a minute. "You're not married."

"No. Divorced three years ago. Contrary to what you might believe, many psychiatrists have their own relationship problems. It's common across the medical field. So much demand, so much pressure on the job, and the spouse often gets the leftovers of time and energy. But we're still friends, and my daughter is the light of my life." Jensen looked directly at House. "And you are, both in my professional judgment after 15 years in practice and in my personal judgment as a father, thoroughly trustworthy with children. I imagine you get along with them much better than you do adults, actually."

House was still looking a bit stunned. "Does Dr. Cuddy seem to have doubts about you with her daughter?" Jensen asked.

House flinched sharply there. "Not that I would abuse her."

"What then?" Clearly Jensen had stepped on an unmarked mine.

House hesitated, and his right hand crept to his thigh. "She thinks I can't handle it physically."

Jensen was surprised. "What gave you that idea?"

"She, um, yelled at me yesterday morning. Gave me a list of exactly what I couldn't do physically and how I wasn't safe to stay with Rachel alone."

"That doesn't sound like her at all, just from my own limited observations of her. In what context did she say that?"

"She got a call from the hospital that a donor wanted to meet with her personally and was rethinking his contribution. She refused to go, too busy babysitting us. I offered to keep Rachel for an hour or so while she went to the meeting, and she lost it and told me I was crazy for thinking that might work and that I wasn't able to keep her, couldn't even pick her up. Cuddy hadn't had enough sleep all week. Wound up breaking down in tears and falling asleep shortly after that. She slept the whole afternoon, and then I convinced her to take one of my sleeping pills last night."

Interesting that House immediately provided an excuse for Cuddy, even right on the tail of describing her outburst. Jensen was fascinated with how forgiving House was of people other than himself. "So she was exhausted and under stress from work. Did she apologize?"

"Almost immediately."

"Did she say that she didn't truly mean it, that you were just the unfortunate recipient of displaced stress?"

"Yes."

"And yet you think she spoke the truth?"

"I _know_ she spoke the truth. I couldn't even pick Rachel up. I had to call Wilson when Cuddy fell asleep later."

"So you called for reinforcements. That is a very valuable function to perform. It sounds like you handled the whole situation admirably, and the physical limitations with your arms are temporary. Dr. Cuddy's annoyance was more a product of exhaustion than a genuine opinion of your capabiltiies. Why should you be blamed for temporary injuries?"

"I'll never be able to run or do things like that. That's not temporary."

"They aren't required for a parent, either. The major qualification isn't an undamaged body but love for the child. If you love a child, that child doesn't care if you have one, two, or four good legs." House grinned slightly at the image, although he still looked a bit dubious. "Back to Dr. Cuddy's statements yesterday, even if badly expressed, that was not a general criticism of you, just a very temporary limitation." House was silent. "Could it be that you cannot understand how she could trust you with her child, from the abuse point, and so are looking for other ways in which she doesn't feel you are qualified, trying to unearth the problem you are sure must exist somewhere?" No reply. Jensen reversed it, just to get a response. "Do you trust her?"

House answered immediately, as Jensen had predicted. "Yes."

"Why?"

"She is the most capable, beautiful, trustworthy person I've ever met. You should see her at the hospital, working through problems. She's a problem solver. Much better administrator than she is a doctor, but she knows how to work things out, knows how to be successful, professionally and personally. She has my medical proxy. She was the one I left a message for when I got shot, right before I fell unconscious, that I wanted an experimental treatment while I was out. I knew she would respect my wishes and make any decisions that were needed."

Jensen had a hidden smile for that beautiful irresistibly stuck in there, a quality which had nothing to do with trustworthiness and yet which House could not resist adding to any list about his boss. "You trust her even though she injured you badly a few weeks ago with a thoughtless prank?"

"I pushed her to it," House insisted. "It was my fault."

Jensen switched strategies, striking for what he thought was at the core of many of House's issues. "Dr. House, I'm going to give you some homework for this session."

House smiled slightly, grasping what he thought was a change in subject. "I'm already behind on last time's assignment. I haven't thrown out Mom yet."

"You've been sick. Your first priority this week was getting well. We'll come to your mother in a minute; I'm sure you do want to talk about her before you discuss things face to face." Jensen was, actually, privately amused that House gravitated to the subject of Cuddy and Rachel so unerringly, even when he no doubt did come intending to discuss his mother. "But this is a very short assignment. In fact, I'd ask you to do it now, but I think it will require more thought than that."

House's curiosity was getting piqued. "What is it?"

"List five things that you like about yourself. Go on and try it."

House started to tick a list off on his left fingers. "I'm a hell of a doctor. I . . . I'm a good musician." He stalled there on the second finger, the others flexing slightly as they waited.

Both of which were things he did, not qualities of his character, Jensen noted. "Not that easy, is it?" he stated. "Keep working on it. Also, as an extension of that exercise, I'd like you to ask one other person that question, five things that they like about you." Jensen privately had no doubt at all whom House would pick, which made the exercise even more valuable and would give him a counterbalance for yesterday's unfortunate and frustrated list of physical restrictions.

House was still staring at his fingers, two down, the remainder waiting. He was clearly floundering.

Jensen took pity on him and changed the subject himself, knowing that House would not forget. "Getting down to your mother. Have you talked to her at all this week by phone?"

"Daily, like you suggested. She started out reorganizing my apartment to keep busy, and then the next day, after I made her promise to stop, she tried to fix it." House sighed. "I hate to think what it looks like. I'll see that tonight."

"If I may hazard a guess, I'd say you probably have very many things but on a system, even if a complicated one." House looked startled. "Logical extension. You weren't permitted to have many things as a child. So your mother tried to reorganize them?" House nodded. "Did she agree to stop when you told her to?"

"Yes. At least she said she did. I've been suggesting things the rest of the week to keep her busy, tourist attractions and such."

"Does she enjoy tourist attractions?"

"Loves them."

"Interesting."

"Why?"

"You mentioned in an earlier session that you lived all over the world as a child. She never went sightseeing in the different countries?"

House shook his head. "She had friends. She saw people, not things. She was in little clubs and such, military wives on the bases. But yes, she hardly ever went anywhere. She did have a few books, atlas of historic sites and such. We went over them together dozens of times, doing mind travel. She and Dad took a few trips since his retirement, but traveling with Dad was probably almost being in the military again. I'm sure he would have itineraries down to the minute. She's started travel with a vengeance in the last year, though."

"That might be one of her own reactions after your father's death. Maybe travel was a childhood dream she always had, only under spontaneity, not military discipline. I imagine that her spontaneity in anything was restricted while married to your father This isn't just a neat curiosity; it's something you might be able to use to your benefit. Emphasize how much her life would be limited in Princeton, especially given your demanding job. She would no doubt be bored. I'm sure she already is."

House nodded slowly. "Good idea. She also seems to react to direct orders, like you said, even though I hate sounding like _him._"

"You associate any direct, firm instruction with him?" House considered it. "What were you like in school?"

"Bored."

"Given your intelligence, that's not surprising. Were your grades good, though?"

"Mostly. Sometimes I would tick a teacher off. Especially when they wanted to go step-by-step through problem solving, or when I saw a better answer than the one they were offering."

"You jumped clear from beginning to end without the middle steps?"

House nodded. "I guess the middle steps were there, but I never really thought about them. Having to list them out was annoying. Having to hear other students try to understand them and work at it was even more annoying."

"Describe your relationship with your mother during childhood."

House considered it. "She was totally oblivious, but she was _there._ She would try to do little things for me sometimes, my favorite foods and such. Dad objected to having toys and all, but she tried to throw in special things when he wasn't looking. She always lectured me on trying to get along with him better, but she didn't know."

"And you didn't mind her lack of knowledge?"

"It let me . . . pretend, I guess."

"Did you ever debate telling her?"

A shudder ran over House, clearly visible by Jensen a few feet away. "No." The silence lengthened, and then he continued. "Dad said if anybody found out, especially her, he would kill her and make me watch. I . . . I believed him. I knew he had killed people."

"Did he tell you it would be your fault?"

"Yes."

"Do you believe that? _Right now,_ not then, not as a child. Do you think if he had, that what he did would have been your fault?"

House took a good minute to answer that. His breathing had accelerated, too. "No?" he said finally, his tone more a question than an answer.

"Right. His actions - and his threatened actions - were _not_ your fault. None of them." Jensen decided it was time to back off. House was getting too upset there, justifiably so, but pushing him to break down in a session would have no therapeutic value at this point. "What is your best memory with your mother?"

House grabbed at that question like a drowning man seizing a life preserver. "The music."

"Your mother was musical?"

"Not really. She could play a little bit, pick out tunes. Not great at it. But she got me lessons with a friend of hers, and I loved it, took to it like a fish to water. She took me to my first concert - Rachmaninoff's Second Piano Concerto." Jensen smiled, remembering that that was House's ringtone for Dr. Cuddy. "That was the one area where I remember her directly standing up to Dad. He thought music was sissy and weak."

"Have you talked to your mother about music since? Have you told her that was a good memory?"

House nodded. "The week Rachel was so sick."

"And you yourself," Jensen pointed out.

"She brought me something to eat one night. Asked me if anything positive was going on, and I told her about the concert and asked if she remembered the music from when I was young."

"You're talking about a more recent concert?"

"I took Cuddy to hear it, our one date."

"The _perfect_ date." House nodded. "Did you tell Dr. Cuddy then about your childhood musical memories and what it meant to you?" He nodded again. "Did you tell your mother about your building relationship with Dr. Cuddy?"

"No. I mentioned going to the concert but implied I went alone."

"Why? That definitely seems like a positive thing in your life."

"It might . . ." House trailed off.

"Might still go wrong?" Jensen suggested. House was silent. "Dr. House, I would very strongly recommend that you tell your mother you are dating Dr. Cuddy. Even just in general, even if you don't identify her."

"You think she wouldn't ask questions and insist on knowing who?"

Jensen smiled. "I'm sure she would. But do you realize that is a very strong piece of ammunition in your request for your mother to leave Princeton?"

House tilted his head. "The fact that I'm dating somebody, even if unidentified, would make Mom more likely to leave?"

"Highly likely. She is right now trying to recapture your childhood, trying to take care of you. That would serve the dual purpose of reminding her that you are an adult and of demonstrating to her that you are not alone and have someone to take care of you when needed."

House shook his head. "She'd want to interfere."

"Actually, I doubt it. She no doubt has been hoping for years that you would get into a successful relationship, has come near giving up on you at this stage, and if told such a relationship was building, she would be afraid of possibly doing anything to derail it, especially in the initial stages. She'd be worried about scaring you off by pushing. She would probably want reports, but I truly believe that reports from a distance would keep her at a distance."

House was staring at Jensen again. "You're saying that the one area where she is _least _likely to want to help out is my love life?"

"I believe so." House looked dubious. "You have said how your father predicted a constant stream of relationship failures to you. Don't you think he said the same about you to your mother many times over the years?"

House nodded slowly. "Probably he did."

"Your mother, I'm sure, did not want to believe him but did not want to defy him or contradict him directly. But due to that constant forecast, if she knew that a relationship was building, she would be very much afraid to intervene, _not_ because she thinks you are doomed to failure, but because she thinks she might, by interference, scare you off, scare you into self-fulfilling your father's false prophecy. That is the point of your life she is most likely to stand back and watch from a distance. Especially with regular even if nondetailed updates, like I said. If she sees success building, she will stay away from it and admire it long distance. But in order to play that card, you _must _tell her that you are in a relationship."

House considered that. "I'm . . . not sure if this is a relationship yet."

"Do you want it to be?"

"Yes." No hesitation, although still some doubts lingering under the tone as to his ability.

"Does Dr. Cuddy want it to be?"

"She . . . I think so."

"Sounds like the beginnings of a relationship to me. I would even say the beginnings of a serious relationship, because I doubt either one of you participates in them casually."

House smiled suddenly. "So you think that succeeding in a personal relationship will help keep my mother away?"

"Yes. And would have many other benefits as well, of course. I realize you've had a very trying couple of weeks here, but you have said that your one date with Dr. Cuddy was perfect. Why don't you ask her out again?"

"Actually, I already have."

Jensen smiled at him. "And she agreed, I'm sure."

"Sort of." Jensen raised an eyebrow. "She wants to plan the evening this time and make it right for me, she said."

"I think you've definitely met all criteria for the beginnings of a relationship. Now tell your mother that." Which also, although Jensen did not say so, would have the side benefit of making it more real to House. Telling somebody else outside the two participants is a very important step.

House considered. "Maybe I will. Let's see, hypothetical conversation here. Mom, don't pass out, but I'm actually finally seeing somebody, so get lost, and I'll call you weekly to tell you how it goes."

Jensen laughed. "Or words to that effect. Be direct. Tell her you are seeing someone, even if unidentified. Tell her how much else there is for her in life beyond Princeton. She will listen to you, I think. But you will have to stay in touch once she leaves. Weekly calls are a good idea. Continue talking about your past in small doses as you can, but talk more about your present and your future." He glanced at his watch. "We're out of time, and I think the best possible note to end on is a defined plan for that conversation. Do you feel comfortable with this now?"

House shook his head. "Not really, but maybe I can do it anyway."

"I'm sure you can." Jensen stood up and watched as House heaved himself to his feet. His leg had stiffened up on him during the session. Jensen deliberately turned away, taking his coffee cup and House's over to the machine in the corner, not watching as House got his balance securely underneath him.

"Next Friday won't work," House said. "Reserved for Cuddy."

"Would you rather take Thursday or Saturday?"

House debated it. "Thursday," he said after a minute.

Jensen checked his book. "Thursday at the same time is available. And remember, you can call me sooner if you need to. Now go throw out your mother." He didn't mention the other assignment, the list of five things, but he knew House wouldn't forget.

"Thanks," House said a bit awkwardly. He turned to leave.

Jensen stood alone in the office for a minute, savoring the feeling of slow but definite progress with a complicated patient. Even though it had cost him his marriage, sometimes he truly loved this job. With a sudden smile of anticipation, he quickly gathered his coat and headed out, going out to pick up his daughter and take her to the movies tonight.


	55. Chapter 55

Hello, readers! Big chapter, not in length but in events. Hang on as we hit the last hill! Thanks as always for all the reviews.

(H/C)

When Cuddy pulled up in front of Jensen's office building, House was already outside waiting, his lanky form propped against the front of the building. He unstuck himself from the wall and got in, immediately turning around to look at Rachel in the back.

"You shouldn't have been out here waiting for us," Cuddy scolded mildly. "We would have come upstairs, and you wouldn't have had to stand and wait that way."

"I've been sitting for an hour straight, about to sit for another two," House replied absentmindedly. "And it's turning warmer the last few days."

Cuddy pulled back out into the street. "How was . . . _what_ are you doing?"

House, who apparently was doing his stiff best to inspect the contents of both rear floorboards, immediately faced forward, moving so abruptly that she could tell he hurt himself slightly doing it, and assumed an innocent expression. "Nothing." His eyes gravitated to the rear view mirror, even though it wasn't tilted quite right for him, getting the best view of Rachel he could without being obvious. "How was your afternoon?"

"Oh, we went to the mall, looked at a few shops. Went to Toys R Us, looked at stuffed animals. I got her a black unicorn; that's what's in the sack behind me."

"A black unicorn? That's unusual. Most of them come in white, don't they?"

"That's why I got it. Just seemed unique. Precious." She could have sworn he smiled slightly. House could be a true softie at heart, at least when he thought nobody was watching. "I looked at bears, but all of them seemed mass produced." She was watching him out of the corner of her eye and noted the usual slight tightening up of his features at the word. "Okay, WHAT is it about bears? Not your father, I take it. You said you didn't have a toy. Were you trapped in the wilderness by a bear? Wanted to run away and join the circus and work with them? Knew someone who had one as an exotic pet that you liked? WHAT do they mean to you?"

"Nothing," he said, features absolutely locked down. "Hadn't we better stop and eat before we hit the highway? I'm due for another dose of meds."

"Don't try to use food and meds to lure me off the subject. What is so major about bears that you wrestle your father over them when you're delirious, actually get mad at him about it, and tense up every time anybody mentions one? Not to mention apparently being paranoid about the idea of me buying one for Rachel? Do I need to put her current bears away so they won't bother you?" A wild idea suddenly flashed through her mind. "Was that your pet name for Stacy?"

"_What?_ No. I never had a pet name for Stacy. I told you, I think we stayed together so long by _not_ having a deep relationship with each other."

That she believed, at least. "Then what is it, House?"

He looked absolutely pained. "I . . . can't tell you. Not now. _Please_ don't make me tell you."

The implication that she could make him, that if she kept it up, he would yield to her, abruptly softened her determination. She sighed. "Okay. You don't have to tell me."

"I will," he promised. "But not yet."

She drummed her fingers on the wheel, curiosity frustrated. Still, she stopped pushing him. She saw a McDonald's up ahead and turned in. "We'll just go through the drive in. Rachel had a bottle at the mall; she'll sleep most of the way back, I'm sure." She didn't suggest this time that House sleep. He was strung as tight as piano wires, no doubt anticipating the confrontation with his mother, not helped much by her little fit on the secret significance of bears. Looking at him, she was glad she had decided not to push him anymore tonight. "I'll just get a salad with grilled chicken. What do you want?" He eyed the menu. He was on edge enough right now that he wasn't hungry. "Let me rephrase that," Cuddy continued. "What are you going to have, whether you want it or not?"

He smiled slightly. "Quarter pounder meal," he said after a few seconds. She ordered, getting his with a milkshake instead of a soft drink, which he acknowledged with a slight quirk of his eyebrow.

A few minutes later, they were on the road again. Rachel had predictably fallen asleep in the back seat. Cuddy left House alone while they ate, only making sure that he did in fact take his meds. After he was down to finishing up his milkshake, she opened conversation again, trying for a kinder, more gentle note. "Was Jensen helpful?"

He nodded. "He had several ideas about how to deal with my mother tonight." His long, sensitive fingers on his right hand played imaginary piano against his plastic cup. "Cuddy?"

"What?" She looked over at him, struck by the note in his voice, then looked back at the road. They were out on the highway now.

"Not to put you on the spot or anything, and you can take as long as you need with it, but . . ."

"What is it, House?"

"Could you . . . name five things you like about me?"

"You're brilliant, gorgeous, sexy, have a great if quirky sense of humor, have a lot more compassion than you let on, are very loyal to your friends, have the most incredible set of eyes I have ever seen on anybody, male or female, have a great way with children, have a hidden but delightful romantic streak that pops out at the most unexpected times, have an entire symphony of music in you for people who take time to listen for it, are . . . um, sorry, how many did you want again?"

He didn't answer, and she took her eyes off the road for a moment to glance at him again. He looked absolutely stunned. "Are you okay, House? House!" He blinked and focused. "Did Jensen ask you that?"

After a moment, he nodded. "I couldn't get past two."

She reached across and squeezed his left fingers. "Then relearn to count. I'll provide lessons, if you like."

He smiled after a minute, a true smile that time, warming his whole face. "Maybe we will. Do you really think I have a great way with children?"

"Absolutely. Everything I said there was true." She glanced at him again, watching him process. "Did Jensen ask you to ask me that?"

"He asked me to ask somebody. After I couldn't hit five. He didn't specify who."

But Jensen no doubt had known, thus giving Cuddy the opportunity to provide a spur-of-the-moment positive list to outweigh her frustrated negative list from yesterday morning. At that moment, she could gladly have hugged the psychiatrist. _Thank you,_ she said mentally. She reached across and put her right hand on House's left again. "Thank you for asking me and giving me the chance to answer."

He studied her fingers across the top of his. "Jensen also suggested that I tell Mom about us." He felt her tense up. "It actually made sense, the way he put it. He said that's the strongest argument I could make. He thinks that if Mom knows I'm seriously seeing somebody, she will retreat and leave me alone because she'd be afraid of scaring me into quitting." That did sort of make sense, now that she thought about it. "But I won't," he continued, "unless it's okay with you."

Her heart melted. As she'd just said, he could have a hidden but delightful romantic streak that popped out at the most unexpected times. The thought that he respected her opinion, her privacy, enough to forfeit what Jensen called his strongest argument against his mother without her agreement dissolved her from the inside out. Any minute now, she would be a soggy puddle of pure mush on the floorboard. "Cuddy? Are you okay?"

"I'm absolutely fine. Yes, House, you can tell her about us. But thank you so much for asking me first."

"So . . . what should I tell her? What do we have?" She could hear the insecurities back under his voice again, the fear that, as he had said yesterday, it would all turn into a pumpkin when the cosmic clock struck midnight.

"We have a 20-year friendship, a mutual attraction we've tried and failed to deny, a whole lot of sexual tension to be worked out, and like you said two weeks ago, a world of possibility. Isn't that enough to start with?"

She heard his soft sigh, felt him relax. "Sounds good to me. If you're sure."

"Do you want another five things, or ten things, or however many that was?"

"No, let's don't talk about me. Talk about you, for once. I got to well over five points on why I trust you, by the way, even though Jensen didn't ask me to count those." Her heart, slowly reassembling into some semblance of solid form, melted again and ran back down into the floorboard. House trusted her. He _trusted _her. From House, perhaps the ultimate tribute. "Tell me what you've always dreamed of," he continued.

They talked most of the way back to Princeton, with only short but comfortable silences, and the trip seemed all too short when she pulled up on Baker Street. "I wouldn't mind you with me," House said, suddenly afraid she'd take her dismissal wrong. "But Jensen said it wouldn't work as well that way."

"It's all right, House. I understand. Call me when you can. And House, take care of yourself tonight even in everything else. Okay?" He nodded, and she leaned over and kissed him thoroughly for luck. He was the one who finally reluctantly broke the embrace and pulled away.

"Can't stay here with you. Wish I could." He opened the door and slowly climbed out onto the street. "Until later, Cuddy."

"Until later. Good luck."

He nodded, then turned toward the steps. She watched him limp stiffly up them and go in, and then she forced herself to drive away, even though her reassembled heart stayed behind.

Inside the entry way, House paused, squared his shoulders, and took a deep breath. He resisted the urge to knock - this was his own apartment, damn it - and he used his key and entered.

"Hi, Mom!" he called. "I'm home." He looked around the living room. Nothing was totally wrong, but nothing was quite right, like a Rubik's cube that was one turn out of being solved. Things were in an order, but it wasn't quite _his_ order.

"GREG!" Blythe had been in the kitchen doing dishes, and now she hurried out and tackled him with a ferocity that immediately set off all his bruises. She felt him flinch and lightened her grasp, still keeping hold of his arms, unwittingly squeezing him across the bruises on the right. She was more gentle on his left forearm, but that, at least in the area protected by the cast, could have handled it better. "Oh, Greg. I am SO glad to see you again." She backed a half step, still holding him. "Let me look at you. You look better than you did last week. How are you feeling?"

"_Much_ better, Mom. I'm still going to be on meds for a little while, but I'm practically well." He managed to free himself and walked over to the piano, giving it an affectionate pat, then taking a turn of the living room. Everything just slightly out of place. This would take him a while to straighten out. A outright mess would have been easier to clean up. He walked over to the coat closet, shrugging his way out of his jacket, and opened the door. "Have you enjoyed sightseeing this week? Even adding in New York, I'll bet you've seen all of Princeton and are on reruns by now." He hung his jacket up, forcing himself not to wince when he raised his right arm. The sack was still there in the corner of the closet from his shopping trip a week ago. He bent down just to confirm its presence before he turned, and at that moment, all of the carefully laid plans for this conversation hit a solid brick wall and smashed into pieces.

The bear was gone.


	56. Chapter 56

Happy Saturday, readers! Yes, we are now on the LAST hill, I promise, and Desperado doesn't have much more to go. I do try to play fair. I told you back in chapter 29 that Blythe had found and moved the bear and also indicated clearly that she had no idea it was important. The beginning of this chapter, by the way, sort of parallels one of my favorite exchanges in House, when he's looking in his closet for the chemical stuff that reacts with gold and the cleaning lady insists she hasn't moved it. Thanks as always for all the reviews!

(H/C)

House spun around so quickly from the closet that he nearly lost his balance and had to catch himself on the doorknob. "WHAT did you do with the bear?"

Blythe looked puzzled. "What bear?"

"The teddy bear that was in this sack! It was right here!"

Blythe frowned. "Settle down, Greg. I do remember a bear, come to think of it, but I tried to put everything back where it belonged."

"Well OBVIOUSLY you didn't. It was right here, and now it's gone! Somebody moved it! WHERE IS IT?"

"Greg, take it easy. Why don't you sit down?"

He turned back to the closet instead, frantically shoveling into the things on the floor, tossing out a rising wake of flotsam and jetsam into the living room behind him. "WHERE IS THE BEAR?"

Blythe came over to put a soothing hand on his arm, and he shook it off. "I'm sure I put everything back pretty much where it was."

House whipped around again and indicated the entire living room with a sweep of his hand. "NO you DIDN'T! NOTHING is like it was. In MY apartment. Do you have any idea how long it's going to take me to redo all of this? But first, I've got to find that bear." He returned to his frantic cleaning out of the closet floor.

"I'm sor . . . I apologize, Greg. I didn't mean to upset you like this. I was just looking for something to do." He didn't respond, intent on tunneling his way clear through to the back wall if it would help. "What's so important about a teddy bear, anyway? You've never had one or even liked them."

House hit the back of the closet and straightened up. "I don't believe this. WHERE is it?"

"I'm sure it's here somewhere, honey. I'll try to remember, although I think I put it back in the closet. Why don't you sit down?"

House leaned back against the wall of the room. His breathing was accelerating now. "Do you REALIZE what that was? It was a gift, a gift that I spent a whole day last Friday picking out, trying to get perfect. And now it's gone."

Blythe frowned slightly. "You spent last Friday sleeping before your appointment in the afternoon."

"No, I actually went out again as soon as you left. This was more important than sleeping." He ran his fingers through his hair. "I don't believe this. I'll never find another one just like that. That's why I bought it in the first place, because it was unique."

"Who was it a gift for?" Blythe asked.

"My girlfriend's daughter," he snapped and only realized afterward that he had referred to Cuddy as his girlfriend without even thinking about it.

Blythe's reaction was that of every mother who has given up on her child's prospects in romance. "REALLY? You have a GIRLFRIEND? Oh, Greg, I am SO happy for you. Sit down and tell me about her."

"NO! I have to find the bear." He turned back to the closet and eyed the upper shelf. It hurt right now to raise his arms even to shoulder level; he'd need a stepladder to go any higher. He turned to look for that, which of course wasn't where it should have been, either. Blythe trailed him around the living room.

"Greg, I apologize. I had no idea it meant anything. I am so glad you've found someone."

House stopped in his search and spun back around to face her. "Exactly! You had NO IDEA! Mom, you can't just come bursting into my life, changing things right and left, thinking you know what's best, trying to recapture my childhood. My childhood is OVER, damn it! Yes, it sucked, and yes, you missed a lot, but you are NEVER going to be able to undo that. We can't repeat it! If you want a better relationship with me, it has to be based on NOW! And NOW, I am an adult, and this is MY apartment. It's not my room in your house, and you have NO RIGHT to come in here and turn it upside down!"

Blythe was starring. "I apologize, Greg. I didn't realize you felt so strongly about it."

He took a few deep breaths. "Mom, you need to leave Princeton. This is my life. It isn't yours. You have your own life elsewhere, and you need to go back to that."

She studied him. "Are you really seeing somebody seriously?"

"Yes, I am. Seriously enough to spend a whole day when I was sick tracking down the perfect gift for her daughter. Which YOU then lost."

Blythe abruptly retreated into herself and out of frantically reworking the past, for the first time in the last two weeks seeing him as an adult, not as her mistreated child. He saw the shift clearly in her eyes. "I'll go, Greg, and leave you to her. But give me updates now and then, okay? I am so happy for you."

It was House's turn to be stunned. Jensen was right. Again. "I'll call you," he said. "Maybe on Saturday mornings every week? I'll keep you updated."

"Please, let me help you find the bear tonight," she asked.

He shook his head. "I'm going to have to straighten things up myself anyway."

"I apologize, Greg." She sounded genuinely sorry. "I was trying to get your childhood back again, like you said. But I am so happy you have someone else in your life now." She stepped forward and gave him a tentative hug, then turned. "I'll get my suitcase from the bedroom, and I'll go."

House managed to find the stepladder by the time she returned. "Goodbye, Greg, but please, keep me updated on your girlfriend. Okay?"

"I will," he promised.

"If I remember exactly where I put that bear, I'll call you." He was on the stepladder now, and she looked up at him. "I apologize for everything, Greg." She turned and left, and House was alone.

The bear wasn't on the top shelf of the closet, although plenty of things were that shouldn't have been. House carefully descended the ladder and drummed his nervous fingers against the wall. Think, damn it. Where would she have put a bear?

Another hour of searching brought him no closer to an answer. It seemed to have vanished. Thoroughly mad now, he paused in his search fit long enough to verify that his spare key was missing - of course she would have taken it, she had to have had a key in all of her coming and going this week - and to call a locksmith, not even blinking at weekend rates, and make an appointment to have the locks changed tomorrow. His life was going to be officially his again. He then returned to searching. His body was resenting all of the activity, but it was his mind that was aching worse. He couldn't believe that he could put that much time, effort, and thought into a gift and have it yanked out from under him like a rug before he even got to present it. Maybe he was a magnet for relationship failure, as his father had said.

The phone rang, and he snatched it up without looking. "WHAT?"

Stunned silence for a second on the other end. "House? Are you okay?"

It was Cuddy. Damn. He forced his tone back into casual. "Fine. I'm fine."

Skepticism poured out of the receiver. "Uh huh. Is your mother gone?"

"Yes, she's been gone a couple of hours."

"Are you okay? Your breathing is too fast. I can hear it from here."

"I'm fine, Cuddy. I was just trying to straighten out the apartment and put it back like it should be. I'm sorry I snapped at you." He realized a second later that he had given himself away completely with that last line.

"You're _sorry_? House, what's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"I'm coming over."

"NO!" He tried to control his breathing, to keep his tone easy. "Please, Cuddy, redoing this apartment is something I'm going to have to do for myself. I don't want any help with it. Okay?" No reply. "Please, let me do this myself."

"Is anything else wrong?" Her tone was full of puzzled concern.

"No. Things are just misplaced." True enough.

She hesitated. To push or not to push? She wished she were there, to see his eyes. His eyes could never lie to her. "Okay, House. I'll let you straighten things up on your own. I want you to do something for me, though."

"What?"

"It's after 10:00 p.m." He glanced at his watch, surprised. "I want you to take the zolpidem, go to bed, and continue straightening up tomorrow. If it's that bad, you aren't going to finish tonight, anyway, and you're still getting well." She heard his reluctance through his silence. "Please, House. The most important thing is for you to take care of yourself. Promise me you will take the pill and go to bed now, or I am coming over."

He sighed. He really didn't want to see her right now. She would read the failure in him. "Okay," he said finally.

"Promise me," she insisted.

"I promise I'll take the pill and go to bed."

"Right now. As soon as you get off the phone." He looked helplessly around the living room, which of course looked far worse than it had in the first place, what with his frantic searching. "House," Cuddy warned, her tone its own promise.

"Okay. As soon as I get off the phone."

"I'll talk to you tomorrow, okay?"

"I'll probably be straightening up most of the day. This is going to take a while."

"I've got the banquet tomorrow night for the donors, but if you need me to help you, I'll cancel."

"No, go on. Like I said, I've got to do this myself."

"Okay. Please take care of yourself, House. Now go take the pill and go to bed, soon as we hang up. Okay?"

"Okay," he said, resigned.

"Good night, House."

"Good night, Cuddy." He hung up the phone with a heavy sigh, then looked around the living room. _Where was it?_ Reluctantly, he fished his pill bottles out of his jacket pocket, suddenly aware how much his leg and other sore points were hurting from the impromptu workout the last few hours. He gulped down the zolpidem and two Vicodin, went through the bathroom, then into his bedroom. The sheets smelled like his mother. This was _his_ apartment, damn it. Not hers. He didn't live with her anymore; his childhood was over. He stripped all of them off, then rolled himself up in a blanket and lay there in the dark, looking at the ceiling for answers until the drug carried him away. The ceiling had no more answers than he himself had.


	57. Chapter 57

House spent the next morning in the further destruction of his apartment. It looked like a tornado had hit it by now. He realized that pulling everything out into the middle of the floor was probably the logical first step anyway to reorganizing it like he wanted, but his thoughts were still consumed with the bear.

It wasn't fair. Of course, he knew that life wasn't fair, had plenty of evidence of that, but to spend so much time and effort on a gift and have his mother lose it seemed like a colossal joke. He was almost ready to believe in some god, because he was sure he could hear one laughing.

Cuddy had called in the morning and then around noon, and he could hear the puzzled concern and frustration on her end. She knew something was going on, wasn't sure what, only knew that he was keeping it from her. He had decided that if he didn't find the bear by tonight, he would have to come clean tomorrow and simply admit to her how his best intentions had still been screwed up, like so much else in his life. She reluctantly accepted his repeated argument that he needed to straighten out his apartment himself, but he could hear the skepticism. She knew there was something more. She left it alone, though, and did not push him, merely making sure that he had eaten breakfast and lunch and was taking his antibiotics on schedule.

By the time the locksmith arrived at 1:00, House was ready to consider alternative explanations such as parallel universes and alien abduction. He had even gone to the dumpster behind the building, climbed up on his stepstool, and rooted around in it, no doubt to the great entertainment of all the other tenants. By this point, every inch of him was hurting, but he refused to quit.

When he let the locksmith in, the man looked around with a startled survey of the living room. "Somebody steal your spare key and break in?"

"Actually, no. It was a family member who had the spare key legitimately."

"You ought to file charges, man. This is malicious vandalism."

House didn't correct the assumption about who exactly had done most of the current damage. "Just change the damn locks. If I wanted advice, I'd write Dear Abby, and you don't look like her." He settled on the couch, rubbing his thigh with his right hand, which just made his right arm ache more and didn't do much for the thigh.

The locksmith didn't seem to be able to shut up while doing a job, though, and regaled House with an entire string of stories he had heard from customers about misuse of their spare keys. "One woman actually GAVE a spare key to her ex after she had the locks changed. I was back again 2 weeks later to change them again. Lady, if you've just had a nasty divorce with somebody in the last year, he doesn't still need a key. 'Just in case,' she said. Two weeks later, she'd changed her tune to, 'I'll kill the sonofabitch.' And then there was the man who had given spare keys to 26 different people. 26, I tell you. Why didn't he just leave his door open and put a neon sign in the window?" The locksmith rambled on, and House did his best to tune him out, his mind still galloping in pursuit of bears even while his body appreciated the rest. It was trying to notify him that it had had a hard day today. It could take a number. Today, the bear was first, Cuddy a short second, and by tomorrow, she would occupy the first demands on his time, with or without the bear.

Still, he would turn the place inside out for the rest of today trying to find it. He hated the thought of having to go to her to confess failure. He could imagine the disappointment - or would it be confirmation - in her eyes.

Abruptly, her list of things she liked about him replayed in his mind. Did she actually think that? There had been no hesitation, though, no time for thought, and she couldn't have been prepared for that question, couldn't have rehearsed.

"Hey, man, you okay?" House blinked and looked up at the locksmith. "You were just looking at nothing. I had a nephew once who had seizures, and he'd get like that sometimes, just staring off into space. Maybe you ought to go to a doctor."

"I AM a doctor," House snapped. "And no, I don't have seizures. It's called deep thinking. Might be an unfamiliar concept." He was too tired, sore, and frustrated to be civil, but he regretted his outburst a minute later as the locksmith presented the bill. "You're kidding, right?"

"Weekend rates. Special call. I'm missing my Saturday afternoon TV for this."

And probably also a jerk quotient added, but House couldn't blame him. He heaved himself up from his temporary rest on the couch, unable to keep from flinching.

"Seriously, man, are you sure you weren't here when they broke in?" asked the locksmith. "I can understand about being afraid to file a police report, but you're moving like somebody's been beating you."

"I'm FINE. And the place was not broken into. And I wasn't assaulted." House wrote the check at his desk, ripped it off the pad, and handed it over. "Thank you. Now get lost."

The locksmith spread his hands. "Not my fault your family has a bad apple in it. Believe me, everybody's does. You should hear some of the stories . . ."

House walked around him to open the door. "Thank you and good bye."

The locksmith shrugged. No point trying to help the ones who just wouldn't listen. "Okay, okay, I'm gone. Here's the new key and several copies. But seriously, man, watch who you give them to. Only hand your key out to people you really _want_ in your life." House snatched the ring of keys, and the locksmith left.

House closed the door and leaned back against it, thinking furiously. "Okay, break over. Now if I were a bear, where would I hide?" He shook his head after a moment. "I am totally losing it." He limped off to turn his bedroom upside down again.

It was nearly two hours later when the cell phone rang. House looked at caller ID, not wanting to unintentionally bite Cuddy's head off again and strengthen her suspicions. Not Cuddy. It was his mother. He hesitated, flipping a mental coin. Finally, he picked it up. "Hello."

Blythe's voice was bubbling over with excitement. "Greg, I've REMEMBERED what I did with the bear!"

He straightened up so quickly that his sore muscles all yelped. He didn't care. "_Where is it?"_

"In your spare room, in the corner." He was already on the way down the hall. "Underneath the pile of extra blankets, there's a box. You can't see it until you move all of the blankets. I put some things in that box that I figured you would hardly ever need. " He dropped to his knees in front of the pile of bedding, almost praying, phone tucked between his shoulder and his cheek as he frantically threw cover backwards into the room. There was the box, tucked in behind the suitcases that usually lived here underneath the spare bedding, lying just between the suitcases and the wall. Totally invisible without a complete stack destruction, and that particular stack had been one of the few things in the apartment that looked untouched. He ripped the cardboard flaps open, and there it was. Rachel's bear.

He felt faint suddenly and leaned against the wall. It was here. He could still give it. Everything wasn't ruined.

"Greg, are you okay? Did you find it?"

"Yes," he said. He was almost shaking with the release of tension. "Yes, I found it. Thank you, Mom. Thank you so much."

"I apologize for putting everything wrong and losing it. I really was trying to help." Blythe hesitated for a moment. "I always did try, Greg. I realize I failed, but I always did try."

House leaned his head back against the wall, his breathing still a bit jagged. "Mom," he said. "I forgive you."

A moment's silence on the other end, and he could hear her slightly thickened voice when she spoke again. "Thank you, Greg. I love you. Now stop spending your weekend looking for that bear and go take your girlfriend out on a date."

"She's busy tonight," House replied, "but believe me, taking her out is on the agenda soon."

"Let me know how it goes. Maybe take flowers. Most women like flowers. Oh, I'm doing it again, aren't I? I'm sure you know more than I do what she likes. Good luck, Greg, and keep me posted."

"I will," he said. "I promise, I'll give you regular updates. Now go take that vacation you put off, or something for yourself, anyway."

She laughed. "I'll do that. Goodbye for now, Gregory. I love you."

"I love you, too. Bye, Mom."

House hung up the phone and just sat there, on the floor leaning against the wall, the whole room in utter turmoil but his soul finally at peace. He rested his head against the wallpaper and slowly kneaded his right thigh, suddenly feeling exhausted. He wasn't sure how long had passed before he looked at his watch, but shadows were starting to lengthen through the windows. Cuddy would be preparing for her banquet. He didn't want to disturb her, knowing that her preparations for a formal evening took a few hours. He wouldn't ruin her hospital plans this evening; he knew sucking up was a large part of her job, and he had cost her enough work interference this week. But maybe there was one quick visit that he had time for.

(H/C)

Wilson answered the knock on his door with his bow tie untied but around his neck. Clearly, he had also been starting preparations for the banquet, allowing extra time in his obsessive way just in case something went wrong, because he always liked to be prepared for things to go wrong. He looked a bit startled at finding his friend on his doorstep. "House? What are you doing here?"

"Came by for a quick visit," House replied, edging past Wilson into the apartment. Wilson gave a quick glance at his watch, then pretended not to, obviously ready to give House the whole evening if he required. "Don't worry, won't take long. I know you've got rich people to go impress for Cuddy." House fished out the new ring of keys and extracted one. "Mom's gone, and since I know she had a key which I really didn't want her to have, I changed all the locks on my apartment today." He held the shiny new key out to Wilson. "Here's your new one."

Wilson stared at it, then raised his chocolate brown eyes to meet House's blue ones. Everything was there. He knew House wouldn't say it, couldn't say it, but it was written right there to be read just the same. He reached out to take the key. "Thank you, House."

"Don't pass it around," House quipped. "My list of authorized visitors is a short one." His tone was light, but his eyes were still on Wilson's. After a moment, House turned away. "Well, don't want to make you late to your function."

"You could go yourself," Wilson suggested jokingly.

"I'm trying to make Cuddy like me. Hearing me around those jerks won't help my cause much. Besides, I've been working on my apartment all day, trying to straighten things out. Think I'll go take a hot soak and a nap. Kind of tired." He looked more than kind of tired, and he was moving extremely gingerly, but he looked oddly at peace at the same time.

Wilson held the door open. "Thank you . . . for the key."

"Yr'welcome," House replied quickly in about one and a half syllables, as if embarrassed to be saying it. He left, and Wilson wasted a good ten minutes standing there in his living room facing the closed door with an insanely satisfied grin on his face before returning to his preparations.


	58. Chapter 58

And here we come to the end of the line, readers. This is the last chapter of Desperado. Thank you so much for the reviews; I can't believe it's got over 850. There most probably will be another, but it won't be for a while. I've got some other time commitments I've got to catch up on. Thanks for everything.

(H/C)

Cuddy normally enjoyed the polished presentation she put on at functions, the appearance of the totally organized professional selling the positive points and emphasizing the needs of her hospital. There might be a mental soundtrack, as House had put it, although she was sure hers couldn't compete with his, but she really did enjoy having a big function come together, knowing that it was going well. Donors individually could get on her nerves, but to put a banquet together and have it run like clockwork usually was fun for her.

Tonight, however, the facade was purely a facade. She was consumed with worry about House. What exactly was going on? Something major, clearly. Equally obviously something involving his apartment, since he didn't want her to come over. What had Blythe done? She had already decided that today would be the end of her forbearance; by tomorrow, she would go over to see him, even if just through a cracked door, to make sure he was all right.

"Earth to Cuddy," Wilson said at her elbow. She jumped, nearly spilling her drink. "You okay? You looked like you were a million miles away."

She sighed. "Only eight. Something's up with House. Something new, I mean."

Wilson trusted her judgment, but he was still a bit surprised at her statement. "Really? I saw him about an hour ago, and he seemed fine."

She nearly spilled her drink for the second time. "Tonight? Where?"

"He came over to my place. He had the locks changed today and wanted to give me a new key." Wilson smiled again, unable to help it, glad that he still had an invitation into House's life after the last few weeks, not to mention the last few years. "He only stayed a minute, said he knew I was getting ready." The oncologist saw the slight hurt in her eyes. "I'm sure that's why he didn't go see you. He knew you were getting ready, too, and it, um, takes you longer."

"How did he seem to you?" Cuddy asked anxiously.

"He looked tired, and he was moving like everything hurt. He said he'd spent the day straightening up his apartment. But underneath it all, he seemed . . . good. Content, almost."

Maybe he'd exorcised whatever demon he'd had to handle on his own, then. "He seemed okay physically, though? Aside from being tired and sore?"

"He certainly didn't seem sick. Just like he'd spent the day cleaning, like he said. I invited him to tonight, but he said he was going to go take a hot soak and sleep for a while. Actually admitted he was tired."

Cuddy felt a little bit better, although still somewhat worried. Apparently the new private crisis was over. "I'll leave him alone tonight, then. I'll go see him tomorrow."

"Dr. Cuddy!" She turned, administrator front clicking firmly into place, to face Mr. Whitson. "I'm so glad to see you here tonight."

"Mr. Whitson, I apologize for being unavailable Thursday."

"Oh, it doesn't matter at all. I quite understand. In fact, it almost worked to my advantage that you were out, because if you hadn't been, I never would have had the pleasure of speaking to Dr. House." Mr. Whitson's voice was far was soft, and all conversation within a 20-foot radius screeched to a shocked halt at least on the part of the PPTH faculty as they replayed that, thinking they couldn't possibly have heard it right. "Such a true gentleman, so courteous and understanding of my position." Someone from OB/GYN dropped her plate at the food bar. Cuddy was biting her tongue to keep from laughing, and Wilson backed away a few feet to get out of Whitson's sight line in case he totally lost control of his features. "Yes, indeed, I was most impressed. I hope to have the pleasure of an introduction some time at one of these functions."

Cuddy firmly schooled her features into pleasant agreement. "He's not here tonight, unfortunately, but as soon as I get the chance at a banquet, I'll introduce you to him."

"I'd appreciate that. May I have the honor of a dance?"

Cuddy nodded and turned to hand her wine glass off to the nearest doctor. "Close your mouth; you look like a fish," she accosted under her breath. Smile and charm in place, she turned again to Mr. Whitson and headed out for another administrative function, the obligatory single dance with a big-name donor.

What Whitson did not know is that mentally, she wasn't dancing with him. No, her thoughts were about 8 miles away.

(H/C)

Cuddy drove by House's apartment when she left PPTH, but all the lights were off. She didn't even park the car. If he'd really spent all day today straightening, he needed the rest tonight. She wished him pleasant drugged dreams and drove on to her house instead.

For the third time in the last month, she all but fell over him. House was sitting propped against her door frame, long legs outstretched, a sack on the concrete next to him. His eyes were closed. "House!" Cuddy dropped to her knees, not caring what it did to her party dress. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"Nothing." He had opened his eyes the instant she called his name. "Just waiting for you." Cuddy was running a frantic assessment, checking his forehead for a fever, taking his pulse. He batted her hands away. "Quit it. I'm fine."

"Then WHAT THE HELL are you doing sitting outside on my porch again? At least it isn't raining and isn't that cold tonight."

"Like I said, I was waiting for you."

"Which, like I said before, you ought to do inside. You should have knocked; the sitter is here. How long have you been out here?"

He hit the light on his watch. "Only about 25 minutes. I figured this was close to time, based on when the banquet ended."

"Wilson said you were going to take a hot soak and sleep."

"Which I did. Had a nice nap. Now can we _please _skip the physical assessment and get on to the point of this conversation?"

"Sorry. I wasn't aware yet that it had a point." She sighed and settled down on her porch next to him, leaning against the other doorpost. "Okay, I'm all ears."

"I . . . apologize for being out of touch last night and today. It wasn't that I didn't want you. I had something . . . very special for you on Rachel's behalf, and Mom had lost it. I spent all day today tearing that place apart looking."

"But you found it?"

He nodded. "I didn't want to give it to you like that. Not when I'd lost it. I'd meant for it to be special, not a joke."

She reached out to brush his right hand with her fingers. "House, you didn't lose it; your mother did. I wouldn't have been disappointed at you. I would have been mad at her. But what is it?"

He pulled away from her grasp enough to pick up the sack next to him. "It's for Rachel, but she's too young to get the significance. It's a getting-well present. I was thinking a week ago Friday after I left PPTH how strong she was, how she was beating that virus. I wanted something as unique and special as she was."

Cuddy started to smile, then froze halfway. "A week ago Friday? The day you left the hospital near collapse that morning to go rest all day and then had the bike wreck that night?"

He looked down, avoiding her eyes. "I didn't quite rest all that day."

"Did you rest at all?"

"It took me longer than I thought to find the perfect one."

"House!" She wasn't sure whether to hug him or shake him. She was touched that he would put that much effort into a present for Rachel, but no doubt his activities from that day had contributed to his bike wreck that night, too.

"It's all over, Cuddy. We're both fine, Rachel and I. Now do you want to see the present?"

She gave an exasperated sigh. "This had better be good, for all it cost you."

"She's worth it," he replied simply. He handed the sack across to her, his slightly anxious eyes watching her expression for any clue.

Cuddy pulled out the bear and stared at it in the dim light from the street lights. The bear stared back at her with that curious, inquisitive expression that she had maybe once or twice seen on Rachel - and that she had seen a thousand times on House. This was the bear. She realized instantly why he hadn't wanted to share it, hadn't wanted to give it out of weakness but had wanted a presentation like he'd dreamed of. She wouldn't have minded, but he would have - and she loved him more for his effort to wait for the right moment. If he was willing to try that hard at this . . .

"Do you like it?" he said anxiously, worried by her silence.

Cuddy answered in actions, not words, flinging her arms around him and pulling him over into a firm if careful embrace. "It's absolutely perfect, House. Totally unique. Just like her. Just like you. I don't want a mass production run."

She felt him smile against her, felt his cheek muscles twitch, and he pulled back slightly to see her face. "I'll probably make a million mistakes along the way, but I'm willing to try, Cuddy. With her and with you."

"Oh, House." She silenced him with a deep kiss that both satisfied and left them hungry for more. "That's all I'll ever ask," she said as they broke apart for air. "I don't want to change you. Just knowing that you're trying for us is all I need." She smiled at him, and he reached out to trace the teardrops on her cheeks.

"You're crying again. Good tears this time, I hope?"

"The best. I love you, House."

"I love you, Cuddy. And I love Rachel." No hesitation behind the reply.

They melded together again, so engrossed with each other that they never heard the click of the lock, and they literally fell inside as the door opened. The sitter stared down at two full-grown adults making out at her feet in a way that put hormonal teenagers to shame. "Dr. Cuddy? DR. CUDDY!" Cuddy broke away and looked up, startled. "Is everything okay?"

It was House who answered, giving the sitter his mischievous grin as he looked up from the floor. "Draw your own conclusions." He immediately returned to his former activities, getting Cuddy's attention and wholehearted participation after a few seconds. He wasn't even feeling his sore spots. Beside their feet, the bear sat on the porch and studied the two with its curious grin.

The sitter, after a moment, quietly turned away and went back down the hall to the nursery. She would gather her things and leave when they paused long enough to come all the way in and close the door, but she figured that even that was going to take a while.


End file.
